


Experimentation, Embers and Everything Else.

by BamSara



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: AU, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, Magic is still a thing, Mutual Pining, No beta reader, OOC, Slow Burn, We post and die like men, Wilson is a mad scientist, Wx-78 is genderless and uses they/him pronouns, adding tags as we go, and by character i mean wilson, character's slow decent into insanity and madness, flirting but they're both dumbasses about it, he's very good at hiding it tho, idiots to lovers, irregular updates, puns, slow plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2019-08-29 23:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 82,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16753132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BamSara/pseuds/BamSara
Summary: After an incident that leaves Willow homeless and criminalized for a crime she never committed, she runs far away. Alone with only the handful of belongings and a fierce will to keep moving, she seeks refuge in a forgotten town in the middle of nowhere, searching for her chance for a new beginning.A newspaper finds it's way to her hand and she stared at the ad printed in tiny black ink. Assistant Needed.----Or:the story where the Constant never existed, the survivors live normal lives, magic still exists, shadows and Them hide within reality and all of the events that transpire in-between.





	1. A New Start

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This story will include slight time-specific sexism and racism, seeing as how it takes place in the 1920s. The constant and shadow throne hasn't happened but magic still exists in this universe, but that'll come in on a later date. Some later chapters might be filler oneshots because I feel like writing those and not necessarily important to the story. I'm still fairly new to how AO3 formats my file when I upload it so if It looks weird to read I apologize. Aside from that, hope you like it.

Willow thinks about the exact events that have led her to this door. The door of a shabby cabin in the middle of the forest on the outskirts of a boring, forgettable town in the middle of nowhere.

  
Her life is-well, was-fairly odd, she’ll admit. Pictures of a fire and a family she can’t remember the names of appear in the earliest parts of her memory, blurred and soot filled air with yelling police officers and whatever else her four year old self could retain at the time. An old wooden house, she was told, up in flames with smoke black as night. It’s a puzzling memory, filled with holes and blanks. Like remembering how the heat made the grass in the yard curl, the soot covered faces of officers, the smell of ash in the air or the sound the fire made when it ate through the roof of her home.

  
Then it ends, quite abruptly. The next memory is sitting in an a weird room surrounded by serious looking adults questioning and doting on her, checking her lungs for signs of smoke poisoning or looking for burns that never formed. Oh, and lots of hand holding and apologizing. Her parents perished in the fire, they said with pity eyes and soft voices. Willow knows she should feel sad when the thought comes to mind but can’t seem to remember who exactly she should be missing.

  
Living in an orphanage your entire childhood gets pretty boring. The first few years was okay, she made some friends, some bullies, having a little bit of a temper as a child made the other kids mostly let her do her own thing. Though, there’s too many of them and oh so little of staff, so it was pretty easy to get away with staying up past curfew or sneaking out at night when the nurses were absent.

  
It also means a lot of mouths to feed. Not a lot of people care about some left over kids that weren’t wanted or just unlucky, as long as they weren’t in public view. Out of sight out of mind, as the saying goes. The best rations went to the younger kids, so eventually they stopped giving her lunch. Then dinner. Then she was picked every other day for some cold soup and stale bread.

  
She remembers singing on the streets in hopes someone would spare her a glance and a coin. Most people wouldn’t, but a frail frame of a girl and couple of Christmas carols on a cold day would convince a few folks sometimes. She made a living, for a while. Willow had a place to sleep, food on occasional and a hobby of lighting alleyway dumpsters on fire when the cold was biting through her dress, a pretty normal routine for her.

  
Willow remembers the day she turned of age and feels a searing anger burn in her chest.

  
The working women already told her she would be required to leave when she was too old to stay, one less mouth to feed and one more empty bed. She wasn’t ready, but she understood. She remembers packing what little possessions she owned in a bag gifted to her from one of the older nurses; some clothes, a little money and a bear she found in a trash when she was ten. Old and worn but soft and the only real thing she had to her name.

  
She thinks about her family, or the concept of what she could of had. She’d look like them she supposed, or really, they’d look like her. She wonders if her mom’s hair was reddish brown like her own, or if she got her amber eyes from her father. She comes up with names for them in her head and wonders how tall they were, if they liked how the sun felt on their skin in the summer or if they find the rain as utterly detestable as she does.

  
Willow remembers being so caught up in her thoughts that she was promptly knocked out with something hard, waking up tied to a chair and doused in something smelling strong and pungent. Looking up, she tried to blink the gasoline out of her eyes before glaring at her captor.

  
An old woman, one she recognized as one of the orphanage nurse’s, with a bible in one hand and a lighter in the other, spewing accusations of an age long past. She must be burned for her sins. God has no love for a Witch, the hag spewed with confidence and disgust, before flicking the lighter and dropping it in Willow’s lap.

  
The memory fades and Willow quietly feels for the same lighter tucked in her bag, taking a deep breath, Here, far from that city, far from the seeking eyes and ones that know too much, she stands at a door.

  
There’s a sign hung up on it. ‘ _Genius at work. Go away_.’

  
Her fingers twitch tighter around the newspaper ad in her hand. Here goes nothing.

  
_Knock Knock_....Silence.

  
The trees in the forest around the house shutter in the wind like laughter running through them. She suppresses a shudder and tries again, knocking slightly harder than before. The windows on the house are barred, old wood with some rot in a few areas with a weathered roof. The thought that no one was home came up but there was no way for her to peek inside and check. _Knock knock_.

  
A clang, some rustling and a male voice inaduablely cursing echoed from inside. Willow stumbled backwards as the front door swung open, a noticeably agitated figure stepping forward.

  
Tired, sharp eyes fell onto her, brows furrowed in irritation before realization came over, softening with a look of surprise. A man, no more than late 20s, early 30s perhaps, stood before her. The brunette stares. He had the most ridiculous hairdo she’s ever seen in her life.

  
“Are you lost, Miss?”

  
The stranger’s voice brought her back to reality. Willow perked up, straightening her shoulders. “No. At least, I don’t think I am.” She answers, quietly scanning the man. He’s donned in some sort of lab-coat with a gentleman’s vest underneath. The rest of his clothes remind her of old money families she saw back in her hometown, except they looked as if damaged by a small explosion. “...There’s an ad in the paper for an assistant job, the address led me here. I’m here to apply.”

  
He blinked, the glint of shock in his eyes rose a spark of doubt in her chest. Was she at the wrong house? Instead of answering right away, his gaze darted behind her, as if checking for something, before returning back to her with a strange disbelief on his face. “You’re not quite who I was expecting.”

  
Willow opens her mouth to retort before shutting it again. Surely if this was just another bloke who didn’t’ want to hire a woman then she might as well just turn and leave. No use in wasting her time when she doesn’t have any to spare. A quiet moment falls between the two of them before the man stands adjusts his posture and lifts his chin, extending a hand towards her.

  
She hesitates, but takes it and gives it a firm shake. He gives her a wide grin. “Wilson P. Higgbury, at your service. You’ll have to forgive my lack of manners, Miss. Most visitors I get aren’t usually pleasant people.”

  
He has a bit of an accent, she realizes. Not posh but something more formal, a touch different from the dialect she’s used to. She holds his hand for another moment before retreating, giving a small nod. “Willow. Pleased to meet you.” Manners aren’t exactly her forte, but she’s been practicing.

  
The man tilts his head, “Willow...?”

  
“Just Willow.”

  
“Ah, I see. Very well,” He takes a step backwards, gesturing to the inside of his home. Clearly, holding back her last name, such a vital piece of information should have given him some sort of alarm, not to brush it off so easily. Though, Willow’s not complaining. Better a disinterested potential boss than a nosy one. “Please come, better to discuss this inside instead of out here on the porch.”

  
The brunette grips her bag a little tighter, muttering a thank you and striding past him inside. The cold air leaves her immediately and the scent of chemicals hits her. Not strong though, just present. As if it were coming from another room in the house.

  
“Forgive the mess, Miss. I’ve been busy lately and haven’t had time to clean.” The man-Wilson, was it?-takes off the lab coat, hanging it on a rack near the door and dusts off his vest. “If I had known company was coming I would tidied up a bit.”

  
From the front door led into what looked to be a small living area. An old couch up against the wall with matching chair that looked like it hasn’t been used in ages. Bookshelves filled to the brim laid against the opposite wall, a shabby rug and coffee table in the middle of the room. On the far side was a door that led to what she assumed was the kitchen, and a staircase leading onto upstairs.

  
At least the interior of the house was better the the outside. The wooden floors looked new but dusty, like they were just recently installed but not swept. It takes her a moment to realize that aside from the multitude of encyclopedias and manuals on the shelves that the room is strangely barren. There’s no pictures on the wall, no images of art or family, nor any sort of decoration so much as a vase. The only spot of real color looked to be some sort of throw blanket draped over the chair. The house was plain and uniform, she noted.

  
But what really caught Willow’s eye was the fireplace. Not big, maybe just enough for her to crawl inside if she wanted to. It’s not even exactly fancy but made of what looked to be real brick. Ash and charcoal sat in the pit, a couple of embers scattered about signifying that it had only recently just been put out. She stares at the smoldering leftovers and a warm feeling churns in her chest.

  
She pushes the feeling away as Wilson sits in the chair and gestures for her to take a seat on the sofa in a swift motion. “Please, take a seat.” He smiles but the way his hands clasps together and urges her to continue makes it feel as if he’s itching to get back to whatever he was doing whilst still trying to be a good host. She doesn’t blame him, it wouldn’t be the first time she’s been an unexpected guest somewhere. At least he was trying not to show his restive.“I need to ask you a few questions if that’s alright with you.”

  
Willow nods, setting her bag to her side as she settles on the sofa. Her weight sinks into the cushion and she tries not to think about how long it’s been since they’ve been washed. There’s not much room to complain though, the orphanage didn’t have super clean furniture either. “Of course. Fire away.”

Wilson leans back in his chair, a friendly smile on his face.“Where are you from, Miss Willow?"

  
The pyro gulps. “I’m fairly local, I come from one of the neighboring towns not too far from here-”

  
“Obviously, you do not.”

  
The brunette halts in the interruption, stunned. The corner of the man’s mouth twitch in a facial expression she can’t quite read. Not hostile, not doubtful, just curious. Or perhaps cautious. “Obviously?” She puts up false grin, something to put off the suspicious. Her hometown was no where near this place, but he didn’t need to know that. “What gives you that impression?”

  
Wilson gaze scans over her before meeting her own. “You’re the first person that’s come to my door.”

  
The girl furrows her brows in confusion. “That’s not-”

  
“Who hasn’t threatened me.”

  
Willow’s response fell and he pauses for a moment, thinking before continuing. “If you lived here, or in any of the neighboring towns to say, you wouldn’t have even thought about approaching me about this job. I don’t exactly have a good reputation, Miss. The residents don’t quite understand the work I’m doing here.”

  
He watches her with acute interest as she thinks for a moment, crossing her legs and giving a solid look. “If you knew that people didn’t care for your work, why put out an ad in the first place?” She waits for her remark to settle over him, backpedaling when his eyes squint in response. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t like the job, I’m just curious is all.”  
“I’m in need of an assistant, Miss. That’s all there is to it.” He gives off a professional aura. “I’m just doubtful that anyone in the surrounding area would have been truly interested in the position, given the circumstances.”

  
The brunette takes a deep breath, one hand fiddling with a pigtail and the other gripping the same newspaper piece. She thinks hard, a spark of irritation in her mind. “I doubt you know everyone in the vicinity.”

  
“Perhaps not,” He replies, “But they assume to know me and my work and find it less than acceptable. That’s putting it generously, Miss Willow. It’s quite obvious that you’re new to the area at least, otherwise you would have never came to my doorstep.” The tone of his voice is solid but not rude, just factual.

  
The girl’s eyes narrow. “I don’t see how where I’m from is important as long as I do my job correctly.” Wilson shrugs, an giving an apologetic look. “I suppose. I would understand if you no longer felt comfortable applying for this position, however. You do still have the option to leave."

She's out options here. "I'll stay."

"I see."

  
A short pause in the conversation, amber eyes fall upon the fireplace again. The embers have died and now all that is left is the dark ash from what was once a surely beautiful flame. Willow turns away from the view and finds light irises staring back at her, watching. “Do you like science, Miss Willow?”

  
The pryo blinks. “Science?” She echoes, watching as he nods his head. “Yes. The Intellectual and systematic study of the physical and natural world, the continues pursuit of knowledge.”

  
Willow pipes up, curiosity in her voice. “You’re a philomath?” She asks. Wilson seems to take the word into the thought. “I suppose some would call me that. I prefer the term scientist, so to speak. A rather good one I’d like to believe.” A hint of pride is in his grin, though it gives his face more of a goofy look than one of arrogance. Absentmindedly she thumbs the ad in her fingers before bringing it out again, rereading it inside of her head.

_Assistant needed, room and board included. Must be okay with chemical exposure, frequent errand runs, long hours and experimentation. See to this address for application: 2xx, St xxxxxxxxxxx_

  
An Inwards sigh weaved through her. Living alone with a a self proclaimed scientist (more like a massive nerd) in the woods wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen. No one else is willing to hire her anyways, so there's no other option unless she plans on starving. She tells herself that as she pockets the paper, looking back to the waiting Wilson. “I don’t know much about it.”

  
He lets out a single laugh in response, a surprisingly pleasant sound. “Not many do. Those I’ve met are quick to call me either a fool or a heathen. ” The mirth in his voice holds for a moment before dropping, taking on a more serious tone. “Pardon my bluntness, but I hope you understand that I’m dedicated to my work and take it very seriously. My field of work may get messy and some ethics may be questionable so some may find it too usual for their liking, or find it simply a practice against God. They are afraid of discovery, of what wonders science can accomplish.”

  
She can tell he’s still trying to be polite, but the frank firmness of his dialogue makes the hairs on the back of her neck turn up. Sensing this, Wilson’s face softens, his polite smile turning as kinder as he could manage. “Science questions what we know and seeks out answers to the unknown. I have no need for an assistant that is afraid of it. I can understand if that makes you uncomfortable. Miss Willow.”

  
Willow thinned her lips into a line, memories flooding back in for a second time in the hour. “There’s nothing much I’m afraid of anymore, Mr Higgsbury.”

  
The room became still and silent, then Wilson suddenly stood from his seat, a grin on his face and a hand stretched outwards. “Perfect! You’re hired.”

  
Willow froze, take aback. The scientist stood with his hand outstretched, grinning down at the frankly confused, stunned brunette before him. Wide light eyes stared at his hand, glancing upwards to the goofy look on his face back down to his hand again. “That’s it?” Willow muttered, “No background checks? No resumes or references?”

  
He waits for her to take his hand in a dazed, timid fashion before pulling her up from the sofa. “I don’t see how any of that is necessary. I only require of you to follow directions, surely that isn’t so difficult.” Willow gleams at him, taking her hand back as he turned his back on her, walking towards the staircase. “...What if I happened to be a crazy ax murderer?”

  
Wilson stops, turning on his heel. “Are you?”

  
“...No?”

  
“Then I have nothing to worry about. Come, I’ll show you to your room.”

  
He waits near the staircase patiently, as she gathers her bag, leading her up the steps and down the hall. Willow’s partially in a daze as she walks in thought. He walks with a certain stride in his step ahead of her, like he’s partially lost in thought himself, perhaps thinking back to whatever he was working on previously. No sane employer would be truly alright hiring a stranger with no last name much less allowing them to live with them routinely without so much as a background check. Only the truly uncareful, confident, or desperate would do such a thing.

  
The lighter in the bag thumps against her hip as they walk. Perhaps it’s best not to question it given the circumstance. A roof over her head and a job to pay for meals was not something she could afford to turn away, no matter how weird her new boss was.

  
“This door, here.” His voice brings her out of her musings, looking up.They’re standing in front of a door in a small hallway. Three doors and a smaller set of stairs are the only things present, aside from that it’s as barren as the living room was. Even the light was fairly dim. Wilson’s hand jiggles the doorknob for a moment before swinging it outwards, revealing the inside. “Here’s your new room, Miss Willow.” He announces, stepping slightly to the side to allow her viewing.

It about the same size as her old room at the orphanage, expect there’s one bed and not six. It’s covered in what looks like a pillow and old blankets, the mattress looks fairly new if not a bit cheap. It’ll be better than sleeping on the streets, though. The rest of the bedroom is an odd combination of neat and messy. A shelf stood against one wall while packed boxes were stacked up in the corners as well old beaten desk without a chair on the other side of the room, dingy lamp sitting on top of it. There was one window, somewhat big but had a curtain that looked pretty clean attached to it. From where Willow was standing, she would have a pretty good view of the forest. She watches the sun cast a orange fiery glow on the trees as it sets. It’s getting dark, soon to be night.

  
“This used to be the storeroom, but I took the liberty of getting it ready in case anyone answered the ad. Just in case.” Wilson adds in, a sheepish, almost embarrassed look flashing across his features. “Of course I hadn’t of expected anyone this soon. I’ll remove the remaining storage from here so you can make yourself at home. Feel free to add or change anything here to your liking. This room is yours now.”

  
The brunette hesitated, taking a few steps forwards into the room, a glint in her eyes. Her own room. She’s never had that, not ever. No bigger kids to push her off of her bunk when she was smaller or sleeping on the cold streets hoping the rain wouldn’t pour. Somewhere to put her things, to get things. Have something to call her own. All it’s been before was the flames and the ash and those never lasted long enough. Here, she could keep anything she wanted. She was going to get so many candles.

  
Caught up in her musing, she can’t stop the smile creeping up on her face. Wilson catches it in the corner of his eye as his lifts up a few smaller boxes, noting her silence as something positive. It takes a moment before she catches his staring, to which he avoids his eyes. Willow smiles. “Thanks, I guess. It’s not too shabby.”

  
Wilson nods, heaving another box until he has a few. “Of course. Take today as time to adjust and we’ll discuss the terms of your work later. You’ll need a uniform.” He pauses for a moment. “What you’re wearing is fine, actually. I have a apron you can borrow if you don’t have one of your own.” Willow bites back a sarcastic laugh. Of course she doesn’t have one of her own, she’s dirt poor and there’s no reason why she’d buy one for herself anyways. “Thank you.”

  
“You’re welcome. My room is across from yours if you have any questions. Oh, and the washroom is down the hall.” He makes his way towards the door as he speaks, sidestepping so as not to run her over. Willow catches him as he’s through the door. “Do you, uh, need me to help you?”

  
He waves her away. “It would ungentlemanly of me to allow you to clear out your own room, Miss. Please allow me. Take this chance to try and familiarize yourself with the house perhaps.” He hums. Willow rocks on her heels, peering back into the hallway. “What about the other staircase? What’s up there?”

  
Wilson freezes. “...The attic. I’d like to ask you not to go up there just yet.”

  
Yeah, that’s totally not suspicious or anything at all.

Willow nods in agreement anyway. It takes a minute before the scientist feels satisfied with her answer, hoisting the boxes up on his side so to speak more comfortable. “It’s getting quite late, I will turn in early to bed tonight, I suggest you do as well. You’ll need to be up by 8AM sharp.”

  
Shock ran through her. “ _8AM_? Who the hell wakes up at _8AM_?” She exclaimed, turning her head to stare out the window into the now-darkened night sky. Wilson’s mouth twitches in slight amusement at the sudden change of manner in the woman. “Science doesn’t sleep. You must be ready for your first day tomorrow!” Ugh, he sounded like a teacher. She resisted the urge to run a hand down her face in frustration.

  
Willow walked over to the desk, setting her back down before turning to the bed, trying her best to make it look semi-presentable. With this motion the scientist turned to bid her goodnight before she stops. She faces him, hands on her hips and a curious look to her amber eyes. “I have some questions.” She stated. The boxes in his arms are starting to get heavy but Wilson managed to swivel back to meet her stare. “Yes?”

  
“You said you weren’t who you were expecting. What did you mean by that?”

  
The scientist opens his mouth before closing it. His gaze darts to the side momentarily like he’s trying to come up with the word for an explanation. “Well, I wasn’t quite expecting my ad for the position to be answered to be entirely honest. Even when I did, I wasn’t expecting a young woman.”

  
A frown settled on the brunette’s face at the response. “Is that going to be a problem?” The sentence came out harsher than she intended but she couldn’t beat down the annoyance. Every other job offer she’s followed either didn’t hire because she was homeless, had no history or simply because of her gender. The first two are understandable, but the third is just ridiculous. It gets tiring to hear excuses after the 50th time over something she can’t help.

  
Every other potential boss became defensive at her tone but Wilson simply shakes his head. “Nonsense. Science clearly states that one’s gender does not affect their capability of working or learning. Those who believe otherwise are wrong.” He sighs. “It is unfortunately a widespread belief. But that’s all it is, a belief. Not fact.”

  
Oh. Well. That wasnt the usual response she was given. Willow shuffles her on her feet before speaking up again. “One more question.” The brunette voices, ignoring the slight impatience in the gentleman’s acknowledgment. “You’re not married, right?”

  
Wilson blinks. “No, I am not.”

  
“Are you not afraid of how an unmarried man and woman living together might hurt your reputation even more?”

  
There’s a pause, then Wilson laughs a real laugh. Hearty and genuine, true amusement in his laughter as Willow stands dumbfounded by his response. He takes a minute to regain his composure, mirth still present in his voice when he responds. “ _That_ is probably the last thing I would need to worry about when it comes to my reputation, I promise you. Let me worry about that, just...” He trails off. “Make yourself at home.”

  
The boxes pressing against his arms are starting to hurt, so he turns away from her and makes a gesture to excuse himself. “Meet me downstairs at 8AM tomorrow morning for a briefing. I’ll need you to run a couple of errands for me.” He nods his head to her. “Goodnight, Miss Willow.”

  
“...Goodnight.” Werido.

  
He shuts the door behind his with his foot. She can hear another door opening from the hallway, closing again and then footsteps heading upwards to what she now knows is the attic. The lamp on the desk shines a dim light over the room as Willow pulls something from out from her bag and sitting on the bed. Leaning back on a propped up pillow, she gazes out the window.

  
A new job, her own room, and a weird, kinda suspicious boss with a really funky hairdo who calls himself a scientist. Not quite the luxurious break she dreams about but it’s a start. She just hopes it lasts.

  
She runs her thumbs over the stuffed bear in her gasp, grasping it with an affection and familiarity that she doesn’t share with anyone else. He’s missing an button for an eye, but he’s perfect the way he is. Damaged and a in need of a couple repairs, just like her.

  
“This is our new start.” She whispers. “They can’t find us here, we’ll be safe. I hope. Even if the boss is a little strange.” She gives out a breathy giggle. “So are we, I guess.” Willow places him beside her, taking off her shoes and laying down, at the stars in past a dirty, cracked window. “Did you see his hair, Bearnie? It looked like a weird black fire.


	2. Incidents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson messes up and Willow freaks out. Twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize ahead of time for the cheesiness that's going to occur.

In the first few months the two have lived together, Wilson has discovered two things. First, his new assistant is completely endeared with fire or anything related to such.

There's a surplus of candles in her room, almost constantly  lit. The smell is nice, it drifts up to his lab on some days and provides a nice aroma to help him relax when performing an experiment particularity risky, or simply if he's reading in the living area. Though it's concerning when the amount of candles aflame in one small room is many (It's a fire hazard, really.) But Willow seems careful, very watchful of the flames and mindful not to accidentally tip them over and snuff it out.

  
The second thing; Wilson is way more forgetful than he thought he was.

  
It's not his fault, truly! It's just when you live in self-induced isolation for years and years, only ever socializing during vital trips to the market for grocery or into town for supplies-even those interactions are bare minimal to none-it's hard to remember that there's now another living being with you inside your home

.  
Wilson will never admit he is a lonely person. He isn't, he tells himself. Lab rats and work notes are all he needed, discovery and knowledge the only thing worth spending time to achieve. He'll socialize when he becomes renown, when he's finally acknowledged for his work. One day he'll create or discover something groundbreaking, something that will truly benefit humanity.

  
But until then, he'll keep to himself. The few acquaintances that live within town limit he has leave him alone well enough, and the common rabble that disapprove of his research aren't worthy of his attention. Solitude is productive, and frankly it's all he's ever been comfortable with. Of course, until recently.  
Willow is a fairly quiet person, keeps to herself and doesn't ask too many questions when it comes to his work. He can tell she's curious but doesn't push,, leaving him to continue his research.

  
There's only a few things he's made her responsible for; going into town with a supply or grocery list and bundle of cash he may give out too liberally, tending to the few plants somehow still alive in his backyard (He had a lovely carrot garden once that fell from glory due to his neglect. Willow doesn't seem to like farming, but does it anyways." and any other minor chores that needed to be done around the property. Though, the last bit was optional and he does let her know that she is free to do whatever she pleases with her spare time, which more than often not she ends up with plenty.

  
He'll admit, she's plenty more helpful than he thought having an assistant would be. It's just the 'another human being' part that he's having trouble with.

  
Sometimes it's small things; like hearing a door shut in the early morning and believing a intruder broke in when he remembers it's just his assistant getting ready for the day, or coming downstairs to see that the floors have been swept, or that the fireplace was nicely lit with a roaring flame. Little things, harmless however.

  
Of course, on occasions where his memory has failed him there have been...incidents.

  
\------------

  
It's early morning Thursday. The scientist feels sunlight creep onto his face as the sunrises above the tree-line outside, shining into his attic window and illuminating his current preoccupation: an artificial limb, made of old scrap he had lying around and some wires he happens to have on hand. He'll need to order some real metal parts and find something sturdier to frame the arm with, but his progress wasn't looking too shabby so far.

  
Orange tinted fingers lie on the desk in front of him, disconnected from the main appendage. Wilson grabs a screwdriver and secures a bolt into the 'thumb' of the hand, picking it up and bending it. A false joint, a little stiff but seems to be functioning, nothing a little bit of oil couldn't fix. Still, this limb needs to be able to move and twist on it's own before attaching it to the main chassis.

  
The scientist picks up one end of the wires, the other end hooked up to a small compartment in the elbow space. He flips down his goggles, leaning only slightly back as he gently taps a small chip in the center of the palm, little sparks flying up at contact.

  
The thumb twitches, and Wilson grins. Progress.

  
Taking only a moment to write down in his small notebook he keeps near the desk, he turns back to the arm. He taps the chip with the wire again, expectant. But instead of moving, the thumb stays still, much to his distaste. Trying again produces the same still result, and Wilson flips the other end of the wire over in irritation. Melted plastic covering and fried connectors meet his eyes. He sighs, "Damn, faulty wires."

  
Without a moment of hesitation, he rips them of the the socket. If the arm had a capacity to feel, it might have been in pain. Never mind that, though. He needed wires, decent ones with the conduct electricity better. There may be some in storage.

  
Walking down the stairs he absentmindedly takes off his goggles. They hurt his head if on long enough, he would have to start looking for some new ones soon just in case. Arriving to the storage room door, he makes a mental note to order a new pair-and possibly see an old acquaintance for some gears during his next trip into town.

  
Wilson swings the door open, only briefly taking a step forward into the room before pausing. Wide, shocked eyes stare into his own dumbfounded gaze before he realizes he's staring at his assistant. Getting dressed. As in, in her partial underclothes.

  
It's cold silent and still for a couple of heartbeats, both staring at one another in surprise. Sweat starts to form on his brow and the dark haired man began to back away into the hallway, what seemed to be half-smile and half-horror on his expression in the wake of what he just did. "...Excuse me."

  
Willow's eyes seemed to alight. "Higgsbury...."

  
He nearly trips himself running away.

  
He sees her throw on the remainder of her shirt and pick up something from her desk, a lighter, he thinks before lurching towards him, fire in her glare. The man practically flies towards his room across the hallway with a leap before slamming the door behind him, flicking the lock with almost inhuman speed.

  
Footsteps reach his bedroom door and stop, tapping in anger. "What the hell was _THAT_?"

  
It takes a minute for him to gather his composure. Taking a deep breathe, he answers from the other side of the wood. "Please forgive me, Miss Willow! I had forgotten you lived in that room!"

  
"I've been here for a month!"

  
"So you have!" Wilson heaves a nervous laugh. "I apologize, it was not my intention to walk in on you I assure you." There's a shake laugh in his apology, though he tries to conceal it. He didn't want to come off as insincere, no. It was just difficult to speak when there was an angry woman on the other side of his bedroom door and he still had the fresh image of her skin basking in the sun rising light. Oh no.

  
The usually quiet assistant is seething on the other side of the door, he can feel it. "Do you seriously expect me to believe that?" She argued. The image of her with her arms crossed, furrowed brows accompanied with a frown crossed his mind. No doubt she looked exactly as such right now. "I thought you were supposed to be a really smart guy."

  
His heart rate is abnormally quickened, due to the rush of escape no doubt. Still, there's a searing heat rising to the skin of his cheeks and embarrassment of doing something so ungentlemanly weaving twists in his chest that it's hard to form a proper apology.

  
He attempts to anyways. "I promise you I had simply came to your door from force of habit looking for some supply of mine. It had slipped my mind that you now reside there and I didn't realize it until it was too late." He sighs, leaning his head against the door frame. "I am sorry, Willow. I will be more careful in the future."

  
Silence for a moment, nothing to responding to him aside from the thump of his chest as it fell back into normal pace. Then, he heard a soft click and the sound of footsteps backing away from the door ever so slightly. "Okay, I guess." Willow's voice still sounds uncertain, he doesn't blame her. "Can you come out now? I'm sorry for chasing you."

  
And giving him a heart attack. Wilson takes a deep breath and exhales through his nose, closing his eyes for a second as he unlocks the door and creaks it open. When he opens them again, Willow is standing in the hallway with her arms crossed over her chest, eyes avoiding his own. There's a red tint to her cheeks and ears. It must be from the anger, surely.

  
She glances back and Wilson almost shuts the door once more when her gaze narrows at the sight of him. A seconds passes tells him that it's not in scrutiny but something else. He blinks when they meet eye contact, though Willow doesn't advert her eyes. "You look like you haven't slept in days."

  
Oh, right. He's been so cuaght up in his work he must have forgotten to sleep again. It happens sometimes. It's not good for the body and mind, he knows this but he's so close to finishing one of the best inventions he's ever created, something extraordinary! Surely that's a viable excuse for losing just a few measly hours of sleep, right?

  
"Listen, I don't really know what you have going on up in that attic of yours," Willow starts, a hitch in her voice and he can tell that he's about to get scolded. "But you really need to start taking care of yourself better. I can't get paid if my boss falls over." She huffs. Her words are serious but her tone carries a slight sense of mirth to it. It eases the anxiety still lingering in the scientist.

  
Wilson lets the door swing fully open, standing at full height again. "I'm quite close to finishing an experiment  I've been working on for a very long time. I apologize for my unmannerly behavior but I wouldn't worry about my well being." He offers a smile. "I'm fine, I assure you."

  
Amber eyes squint and she doesn't seem to buy it, but waves off his excuse anyway. Arms unfolding, she places them on her hips and glances back at the storage-no, her bedroom before sighing. spinning on her heel and heading inside. Wilson doesn't dare follow her, only listening as something light is scooted across the floor. Gingerly, he steps forward and peers inside.

  
Willow lifts up a small cardboard box with a fake huff, hoisting it up in her grasp and holding it out towards him with a knowing grin. A tab of the box is open, revealing the contents. Trinkets, little pieces of plastic, old telephone wires and an random assortment of old screws and pieces of glass. The brunette gestures towards him, "Found this underneath the bed last week. I thought it was all a buncha junk so I didn't think you'd need it."

  
The scientist's gaze falls to the contents, quietly noting the wires and taking the box from her arms, giving a quiet nod in response. With the prize now in his hands and his work awaiting him upstairs, he backs from her door, mummering a polite "Thank you" as he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

  
Willow watches him for a moment, giving a small shrug before walking back inside her room, shutting the door behind her with a faint click of the lock. Finally, that ordeal is over. The scientist climbs the stairs with the supplies, still feeling the faint strangeness in his chest as he shuts the attic door behind him.

  
The first incident was probably the worst so far, but all others have been far more comical.

  
Willow's favorite incident so far has got to have been what she likes to call the 'eyebrow incident', much to Wilson's chagrin.

  
In the short time that she's been employed under Higgsbury's name (2 months now, she thinks.), she still had yet to figure out exactly what the man was working on. From day to night he's cooped up in the same room upstairs unless he comes down to eat or sleep, and even then she finds him rarely doing that and feels the need to climb up and knock on the attic door to kindly remind him that even scientists need to get some shut-eye. Not having to listening to the sounds of metal clanging and tinkering while she's trying to sleep herself isn't such a bad thing either.

  
Sometimes he'll shout something inaudible from the other side of the door, she'll shrug and carry on about her business with the mind that she at least tried. Sometimes he'll crack open the door ever so slightly, just enough to allow her to see a small corner of the forbidden room before he asks what she needs.

  
From the spare glance she could tell it was horribly messy. Shapes with what she guessed to a desk covered in unidentifiable items and tools, walls covered in posters and maps made out of different colors with writing too far away for her to be able to read. Often she wonders if there's anything remarkably flammable inside, curiosity etching itself into her brain.

  
Wilson blocks the doorway, though. Whether it's intentionally or out of habit, it doesn't seem to matter. The scientist is very reluctant to let her see the rest of the room, much less allow her to take a step inside. He always responds to her in a polite, quick fashion and gives some excuse; telling her he needs to alone to keep his focus, or that it's too dangerous for her to come inside, or simply giving her some meaningless task to carry out so he could shoo her away and get back to whatever it was he was doing. It's fine, he can keep his secrets as long as she gets a paycheck.

  
It crosses her mind one day that maybe she should be more concerned about what the scientist gets up to in the attic when she hears a something akin to an explosion coming from upstairs.

  
Willow freezes, hands wrapped around a small wooden log about to thrown into the fireplace. The flames crackle in their spot, feeding off of the fuel she's already thrown in and growing larger to a much healthier fire. Memories of the smell of gasoline and screaming echo in the back of head as she drops the log, ears perking up to listen for anything upstairs.

  
But there's no screaming, just silence and the smell of something burning.

  
The pyro turns from the favored fire and rushes towards the other end of the house, quickly climbing up the stairs and stops at the attic door. The air is thick with the smell of smoke and something more acidic smelling, sharp and stinging her nose like bleach. Her hand hovers over the doorknob before hesitation. An emotion she hasn't felt in a long time for good reason spikes up. "Mr. Higgsbury?"

  
She waits a moment, hands clasping over the knob and turning, letting the silence be the one giving her permission to enter. Still, the knob jiggles and she grits her teeth in frustration. The pyro tries the door again, shaking the knob a little more desperately not quite registering that it's locked. "Mr Higgsbury!" She yells. No answer.  
Anxiety peeks at the edges of her mind and she finds herself thinking of where she would have to go, what she would have to do if something happened to her new boss. Willow already had enough tagging to her name, she didn't need to be accused of another murder.

  
She thinks about the funky haired scientist she's only known for a short time, the same man that doesn't care how many candles she likes to have in her room or lets her build her fire as big as she likes, who likes to talk about the sun's rotation at breakfast when she's only half listening, watching as he bites into his bread and gives a sheepish grin, apologizing for rambling. The man who doesn't know a thing about her is probably the closet thing she's got to a friend.

  
The feelings that comes with these thoughts are not good ones. Willow feels a lurch in her chest." _Wilson!_ "

  
Shuffling comes from behind the wood, the sound of debris hitting the floor and a male voice cursing in a very ungentlemanly manner.

  
The door clicks, pulled open all the way out for once for all the room to be exposed. The room itself was even more of a mess than she originally thought, a heap of scrap bunched up on one side of the room and scorch marks skidding from a blacked, dirty desk pushed up against the wall, a foamy substance spilled out on the surface, originally leaking from a busted beaker.

  
But it's not the room Willow's looking at, instead, the scientist who leans on the door frame for support, covered in odd black ash and small burn holes decorating the arms and chest of his lab coat. Wilson, strangely enough, although looking worse for wear holds an attitude of nonchalance.

  
He peers down at his assistance, noting her gaping mouth and gives a weak smile. "Not to worry, Miss Willow! Just a simple mishap was all it was." He laughs, abiet a little awkward. Amber eyes scan his form; he seemed mostly unhurt, save for the way he leaned sideways and he slugged his shoulder ever so slightly.

  
Willow stares at him, opening her mouth to speak before being interrupted. "Now, I know you have some questions," Wilson starts, using the door frame as a both a crutch and a way to block her view from the mess inside. An old habit, she guessed. "But this is nothing to be concerned about, really. Just a little miscalculation on my part, but what is trial and error without the error, right?" He tries to keep the mood light.

  
He doesn't seem to find the cues in her expression and continues with the excuse, closing his eyes and making gesturing with his uninjured arm. "I'll clean this up, so don't you worry about this-"

  
There's a soft, delicate poke on his lower forehead. Wilson stops, arm still held up in mid-pose before opening his eyes to find a finger barely touching the skin on his face. Blue eyes follow the finger down the arm to it's owner, his assistant with a wide eyed, shocked look on her face. "....What?"

  
Willow holds her finger in place, the corners of her open mouth slowly turning upwards into a wild grin. He feels an odd blush creep to his cheeks as her hand lingers, frowning at the contact. "What is it? It there something on my face?"

  
Suddenly, Willow wheezes a strange noise that oddly sounds like she's holding back laughter. 'No, you're missing something!" He feels her retract her hand to cover her mouth, holding back a barrage of giggles. Confusion fills his being. "Missing? What exactly am I missing?!"

  
Willow seems to caught up in her fit of laughter to answer him. The blush is touching his ears now, he can feel it. "Miss Willow!"

  
"You're eyebrows!" She laughs. "You're eyebrows are gone!"

  
She collapses into a fit of hollering and joy as Wilson's hands fly up to his forehead, feeling for the strips of hair that used to be there. When his fingertips feel bare, torched skin, he freezes. By god, he must look like an absolute buffoon, he thought. And his assistant was laughing at him! He was her boss!

  
Willow heaves out a final laugh, glancing up to catch her breath only to fall short and erupt into another set of giggles. Wilson was frowning very hard at her, embarrassed and possibly a tad upset but the lack of brows and wide eyes just made him look like a sad boy at the carnival who just lost his lollipop.

  
If his arm didn't hurt as badly as it did, he would shut the door and locked himself away. Instead, he stood and waited with red cheeks and pursed lips as Willow held herself up off the wall, out of breathe with tears dotting the corner of her eyes, a joyful smile wide on her lips. "Hey, don't worry about it. Just use your science stuff and grow some back really fast!" She snorted.

  
In the back of his mind he quietly notes that she has an adorable laugh, but is much too embarrassed to dwell on the discovery. He pouts, and Willow resists another bout of giggles with what face becomes of that. "Hilarious," Wilson sighs, "Are you quiet done?"

  
"No, not really. But I'll stop for now." Willow pokes his bare brows again in tease before her gaze lands on his arm, dotted with small burn marks on his nice, white coat sleeve. "Let's get you fixed up."

  
Wilson protests almost immediately. "I can patch myself up, Miss Willow." As if to emphasis, he gestures towards himself, only to flinch as a shot of pain rushes up the skin of his left arm.

  
The brunette shakes her head. "I don't think so. Just consider it an future apology for all the times I'm going to tease you about it." The unpleased look he gives in response is amusing. "Where's your First Aid?"

  
Wilson gulps, shuffling uncomfortable as he inches the door slightly closer. "Inside my lab."

  
"Okay? Let's get it then."

  
Willow takes a step forward, efficiently forcing the scientist to take a step back as he stifles a grunt of pain at the movement but still manages to block her entry. "I don't think that would be a good idea." Wilson insists.

  
She bites the inside of her cheek, an annoyed frown on her features. "Listen, whatever you're trying to keep secret in there isn't as important as stopping you from bleeding all over the floor. I'm going to be the one having to clean that up later." The man opens his mouth to speak but she catches him mid-word. "You're not in any shape to much of anything. This is supposed to be my job, remember."

  
The dark haired man glares at her in silence, a sense of hesitation falling over him. Even though without the eyebrows he looks akin to a naked mole rat it's obvious he's seriously debating on whether or not she should enter, thoughts running through his head like clockwork.

  
She'll think he's insane, absolutely bonkers and run for the hills. Or maybe she'll brush him off as delirious and laugh at his face. He made it clear that what he was doing wasn't exactly conventional but if she sees just to what extent his work is, he'll be back to square one. Marked off as the mad loner who should be avoided at all costs.

  
But she's an odd one herself, bolder and more curious than the residents that are quick to label him as an outsider. If the location, rumors, loud noises, bright lights at night didn't scare her away from here then he could test to see just how curious she was. A test, his inner monologue repeats to himself. He taps his fingers against his injured arm melodically. "You're quite a strange one."

  
Willow shrugs. "Says the one who hired me."

  
"Yes, I suppose I did." Wilson exhales, stepping backwards to allow the door to fall back, revealing the room. "Do not touch anything."

  
He's pretty sure she tried to blow a raspberry at him as she saunters past, crinkling his nose at the act and watching as she plants herself in the middle of the room, taking in the sights. He feels a nervous twitch become of his fingers.

  
Willow looks around the room, rocking on her heels. "Wow." She mummers. "You're an even bigger nerd than I thought."

  
For what felt like the 50th time in that hour, Wilson lets out a disgruntled sigh.


	3. A Lesson, and Laughter

The lab was as expected; messy, disorganized and to Willow's (pleasant) surprise, slightly scorched.

  
It was one large room, spanning over the width of the building at least halfway. There was one window present, the rest of the room illuminated by cheap looking bulbs or strange flickering devices. There was a desk on the far corner with a beaten wooden chair and desk lamp to join it, paper and ink pens scattered across the surface.

  
Willow walks over to the scorched side of the room, where the wooden floor was darkened with marks that still didn't quite cover the scratch marks from what she guess could be cause by pushing heavy furniture. Unlit beaker burners and a box full of a multiple of tools lay on a far counter. A heap of scrap metal sits in the middle of the space, probably where he was thrown off to.

  
She can feel Wilson's stare burning into the back of her head, watching her movement as she brings her hand towards what looks to be a rusty, object sitting alone. Her first thought is that it's a over sized doll arm, what with all the human-like placements of joints and fingers, but the wires sticking out of the elbow removes the thought. She backs away from the arm, glancing around the room once more.

  
There's a odd feeling here, not a dangerous one, just odd. Sure, the explosion itself is a good enough example that this place could be dangerous if Wilson willed it but there's something amiss, something about him wanting to hide these things away that makes her think.

  
Willow hums in her head, staring at a large, cylinder with buttons and switches galore. A metal table table is beside it, metal and tin strapped on it in a odd fashion.   
All of this looked way, way too expensive for just some scientist wannabe living alone in a cabin.

  
Wilson shuffle uncomfortably near the door still, leaning his weight on one leg and timidly touching the bare space on his forehead. "It's safe. Now, at least." He speaks, finally moving towards a litter dresser she didn't see before. He shuffles through the top drawer before sighing and moving onto the next, muttering something underneath his breath as he pulls out a shabby white box.

  
The brunette comes up behind him, peering over his shoulder and frowns. "That's all you got?"

  
Wilson's eye's go half lidded and frowns, though if he had eyebrows his disgruntlement would be much more pronounced. "Yes, I'm aware it's outdated. But it's all I have for the time being. Please, excuse me." He makes a move towards his desk, but Willow takes a stride in front of him.

  
"You're excused." She gives him a wiry grin, slipping the box out of his hands before he could protest. "Coat off."

  
The scientist shakes his head. "It's minor. I'd rather not."

  
"Then bleed to death."

  
Wilson's blood would have ran cold if it weren't for the playful smile that danced across his assistant's face as she spoke, giggling at his adverse reaction. A deep sigh escapes him, sending a small shock of pain down his arm. It was just a flesh wound, really. Her sentence held no real threat, just a jest that he's not quite used to.

  
Still, this was his lab and he was getting impatient. "I have adequate medical knowledge Miss Willow, I know how to take care of a simple burns and lesions."

  
She ponders for a moment, first aid just out of reach before setting it down on the desk, gesturing towards the chair. "That's neat. Sit down."

  
Wilson's frown deepens, but sits anyway. The ache in his ankle was beginning to throb anyways. There's a small touch at the cloth on his shoulder, turning his head to find a piece of his now ruined lab coat pinched in between the fingers of his assistant. She gives a smirk at his unamused expression.

  
Wilson swats her away with his good hand. "There's rubble in my work area, why not take care of that instead wasting time on what I could do perfectly fine?" He insists, her expression unwavering to his gaze. "You're not required to do this, I assure you."

  
His suggestion found no ground. Instead, Willow crossed her arms with a huff. "I want to."

  
If he had brows still, he would have raised them. "...Oh?"

  
"Teach me how to treat burns."

  
Wilson gives her a strange, surprised look. "You don't know how to treat burns?" She nods, and he gapes at her. "And why, exactly, would you ask me to do that?"  
The girl taps her fingers against her arm, turning and popping open the first aid with a click, peering inside. "Well, you just said you had medical knowledge. You're burned now, and since you're a 'scientist' you'll probably get burned again. I've never had one before, never had a reason to learn." She rummages through it's contents while speaking, narrowing her eyes as she pulls out a couple of items; bandages, anti-disinfectant, a needle, some other things not quite needed for what damages he has. If anything, she's just curiously searching through his supply.

  
Willow grunts an impatient sound, taking the box and flipping it over to spill out the rest of it's inventory of the desk. The scientist sitting next to her dims at the sight of his work covered by the unnecessary dump.

  
She turns back to him, one hand on her hip and pointing at his lab coat. "I'm your assistant, right? Teach me it."

  
As much as Wilson really, really wanted her out of his lab, he had a feeling she would not leave until her curiosity was sated. Of course, even injured he is well capable enough of kicking her out himself. His gentleman code forbids such a thing, though. "Fine." He shuffles off the coat, revealing his usual attire underneath, only slightly less damaged. "Put the needles back inside the box, we won't need those."

  
Willow does as asked, eyes widening as the injury comes into plan view. It probably looked worse than it actually was, she was certain. Still, it appeared to be painful. Wilson seemed to be managing, though, face stuck in a frown bordering on a scowl but silent nonetheless. She wonders how many times has he had this happen.

  
Wilson pulls up the rest of his sleeve. The wound on his arm is red and scalded, tiny pieces of glass embedded in the skin allowing small lines of blood to run down past his elbow, already dried and caking off as he moved. Willow kinda wants to touch it. "What happened?"

  
"Beaker exploded." Wilson grunts, straining his head to see the full extent of his injury. "Shielded my face so this limb took the blunt of it, I'm afraid."

  
"And your ankle?"

  
"Most likely sprained from the falling impact."

  
Willow nodded, crouching down to get a better view. She must have invaded Wilson's bubble ever so slightly because the scientist scooted further back in his seat, a resounding gulp in his throat. "The tweezers, please. We'll need to extract the glass before we can treat the rest of the affected area."

  
She finds the them on top of one of the many documents scatted across the desk, shoving them to the side so she can have a spot to put the glass. Wilson makes a unhappy noise behind her but she ignores it. "Okay, got them."

  
"Good. I can do this part, you know."

  
Willow glints at him, "Aw, you don't trust me?"

  
The mirth in her tone really shouldn't lighten his mood considering the circumstances, but it does it anyways. "Just laying out the options here, Miss Willow." A small grimace of a smile makes it's way to his face, somehow overtaking the nervousness he feels.

  
He tells her to put on some gloves somewhere in the box and feels mild relief when she actually does. The assistant leans against the desk with his injured side facing her, thumbing the tweezering in her hands. "So," She drawls out, eyeing the glass. "How should I do this?"

  
Wilson takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "Very carefully take a piece of glass in between the tweezers and pull very slowly." He decides not to look down as she leans beside him, following his instructions. He can feel the tool touch the bareness of his skin. "Try to keep a steady hand, if the glass wiggles as it's pulled out it can cause even more damage. Also, don't pull out too quickly or it'll-"

  
He stops, biting down on his tongue in a hiss of pain. Willow springs up in alarm, equipped tweezers holding a small, shival of glass. "Sorry!"

  
Deep breathes, calm. The scientist waits for the pain to subside, opening his eyes to a very guilty looking Willow. "Well," He manages a grin. "I suppose your handwriting isn't very pretty to look at, either, is it?" If Willow didn't feel so bad for him she would have thwapped him on the brow-less forehead.

  
It takes only a few more minutes to get the rest of the glass out. Willow is a lot more careful, slowly finding the piece and slipping them out as painlessly as possible, setting them down on the desk and returning for another. They sit in relative silence, aside from Wilson giving her instruction here and there. Although she is doing quite better he still wills himself not to make a sound of pain out of embarrassment.

  
"Kinda crazy what fire can do to people, huh?" Willow breaks the one-sided conversation, placing the last pieces of glass on the desk and standing up. "There's like, a bajillion different ways to get burned." She says in thought, staring at his wound in strange interest.

  
Wilson may have found it off-putting if it wasn't for her quote that irked him more. "First of all, there's no such number nor word such as 'bajillion'." He starts off, missing how her expression deadpans at his response. "Second, this is not a burn from a fire. This is a chemical burn."

  
Willow's expression changes to something flickering between curiosity and disappointment. "You can get burned by other things that aren't fire?"

  
The scientist nods, gesturing to a wad of small bottle and wad of bandages laid out before him. "There are a multitude of types; heat, whether from flame or hot liquids, perhaps scalding solid material. Then there's electrical burns, which is basically heat but condensed much quicker and full of charges." His lifts his arm up higher, using his other hand to gesture towards it. "Chemical burns typically stem from exposure to a substance harmful to human skin."

  
The girl is quiet for a moment, processing. "So basically fire. But not in fire form?"

  
The scientist in him wants to sigh but the comedic in him wants to laugh. "Yes, an rudimentary way of putting it but I can see where you would make that connection." He nods towards her, pulling his sleeve up higher as she picks up the bottle. There's no label, the inside is filled with a jelly pink liquid. "This goes on it? Is it some sort of special Aloe or something?" She asks.

  
"Aloe is used to treat sunburns. And yes, we'll be using that." He corrects her. She takes a small white cloth and tips the bottle over, taking a decent size amount onto the fabric. Wilson glances at it. "You didn't need to use that much."

  
She simply shrugs. "Oops. Never done this before."

  
"So you've told me." He sighs, "You know, Miss Willow, I find it quite strange you've never experienced a burn before, what with your apparent obsession with candles and my fireplace."

  
Sweat would have appeared on Willow's forehead if she didn't half expect the question coming. The subject matter was just too interesting not to talk about though. "Nope, never had one." Her reply was somewhat curt.

  
He twists his shoulder to give her a better view, inwardly bracing himself for the application. He instructs her to wipe it in a circular motion, making the spread of the substance as smooth as possible to cover the entire affected area. Willow wrinkles her nose at the tangy smell of the medicine before crouching down and giving his arm a look over. There were tiny slices where the beaker shards once were, but appeared almost unnoticeable against the inflamed color of his skin.

  
"Not even as a child?" Wilson continues, steeling his shoulders for the incoming pain.

  
"Nope."

  
"Ah, I take it you were stricltly raised then?" His outloud wonderings cut short when a cold sting strikes him arm, traveling up his skin and sending a sharp sensation up his neck. Wilson hisses a breathe of air as the medicine seeps into the burn, the echos of a headache pulsing in the back of his head. He turns to look down at his assistant, surprised to find her brows furrowed and with a tadiest bit defensive expression adorning her face.

  
"What does it matter, anyways? It's not like it's a bad thing, people grow up without experiencing stupid stuff all the time." Her remark is tarty but he realizes she's avoiding his gaze, focused on making unsteadied though gentle motions with the cotton cloth.

  
"I just found it strange how a woman of your age didn't know basic first aid for a simple injury." His tone is peaceful but Willow still finds a unintentional insult in there somewhere. "I did not mean to upset you."

  
The assistant makes an quiet 'hmm', dabbing the excess liquid off before it dripped down his arm. "This feels like your looking for an excuse to figure how where I'm from."  
A smile slides up Wilson's face despite the throb in his arm. "Perhaps it is. Though you cannot blame me for trying."

  
"I thought you said where I'm from wasn't important."

  
"It's not. No offense. I'm simply curious."

  
Willow stands from her spot, tossing the used cloth somewhere on the desk. It lands with the sloppy side down on some paperwork in the far corner and Wilson grumbles something under his breath.

  
He tells her to take the bandages and medical tape left over, this will be the final step. Willow looks surprisingly disappointed, as if the entire process of treating a burn for the first time wasn't quite as exciting as she expected it to be. Why would it?

  
He's telling her the approximate length and width to cut the tear the bandage before application when she pipes up again. "I wasn't sheltered, you know." She doesn't meet his eyes as she cuts the cloth, producing a quite uneven job. "I'm just got very lucky." Ha. Her condition was more than just 'lucky'.

  
Luck doesn't exist, Wilson thinks. At least, not in the sense that people thought it did. There was always a cause and effect, a action and production in every corner of life and to credit the fault or success of such a thing to pure chance was callow thinking. Alike the Butterfly effect, it does not matter if the cause is immediate or far past.

  
In the midst of his musings, Willow stares at him in anticipations, awaiting to see if he'll allow her a witty response, a simple acknowledgment would suffice. But he decides not to push her vague answer, he's got bigger questions to satisfy. "Very lucky, indeed. Wrap the bandage around firmly, but be careful not to scrape the skin as you tighten it or I will begin to bleed again."

  
A small nod of the head is his response, he believes he see's the faintest of relief flash over her features as she takes her place besides him once more, arms stretched out. "Like this?" The soft touch of the cloth barely touches his skin and he realizes that the nerves of pain he felt before are beginning to numb already.

  
"No, lower. Start wrapping from the bottom upwards so the knot won't press against the burn."

  
She does as asked, holding down the start of the wrapping with one hand as Wilson guides her to finish concealing the rest of his bicep. Eventually, she catches on, hands moving in a swift, working motion as he watches the burnt skin disappear behind white fabric, the eyes of his assistant locked onto the flesh as it hides.

  
Wilson leans back in his chair, relaxing as she finishes patching him up. When was the last time someone tended to him so carefully? Perhaps when his father bandaged his knee after a fall down the family house's porch, or when his mother kissed his bruised head after a smidgt with the local elementary bullies. Whether or not she actually did a good job at the aid was irrelivant to fact that he's always been the one to fix himself up after a failed experiment. Her attitude towards him, however, he found strange.  
Years of self-induced isolation bear down on him, though he could never quite lose his manners. Embedded within him only because his parents took the time and money to hire the 'best of the best' they say of governesses to teach him respect. They didn't last long, either finding repulsion in his interestx as a child or failed to produce the proud, picture perfect Higgsbury heir his parents so desperately wanted.

  
He wondered if they still loved him, even as hid himself away across the ocean.

  
Week to months would pass by without so much as another word spoken to another living being. He talks to himself sometimes, of course. Exchanging proper greetings with shop keeps and the mailman on good days. There are the publishers who showcase his work as well, but those kind are satisfied with a firm, signed letter. He's quite used to being alone.

  
So it's a strange feeling indeed when he realizes just how easily he's given in to allowing Willow not only inside his lab, a truly sacred place for him, but also to instruct her how to treat his burn simply because she said she's never done it before.

  
Either he's lost his touch with conversation or she's more persuasive than he gives her credit for.

  
Wilson breaks out from his train of thought as Willow ties the cloth's knot, giving it a small pat for emphasis. There's a satisfied, almost proud smile adorning her face. It suits her quite well. "Done!"

  
The scientist rotates his bicsep to give her handiwork a look-over. "Not quite as proffesional as I would have done it but that will do. Thank you for your assistance."  
She snorts, taking off the gloves and tossing them to join the discarded medicine rag. The man grumbles again less quietly, but she ignores it. "Your welcome." Sarcasm goes hand in hand with the grin she bares. "Maybe next time you can be more careful with your science mumbo-jumbo."

  
The gentleman resists the urge to roll his eyes, it would not be very polite of him. He settles for deep inhale, however. "Noted."

  
A quiet falls over them as Willow packs the leftovers back into the little white box, shutting it close and leaving it on the desk. She leans against the furniture as she looks about the room, inwardly moaning at the destruction still decorating the walls and floor of the attic. She's going to have to clean all this up, isn't she? Well, maybe Wilson will do it since he was so insistent about doing it without her before but now that she's seen the injury up close, she'll just feel bad. Empathy sucked sometimes.

  
Which reminded her. "What about your ankle?"

  
Wilson paused from the motion of rolling his shoulder, taking a moment to gather his strength and stand from the chair. For a split second Willow believes he's going to stumble and firms herself to the desk so she doesn't come forwards as he steadies himself on his feet, testing his weight on each leg. After taking a few steps, he looks back to her. "Sprained. Rest will heal it just fine on it's own."

  
Okay, cool. "So you're all good to go now?"

  
"Yes, I am." Now that his arm was repaired it was time to clean up his mess and scavenge what materials he could from the rubble. He also needed to record this incident in his notes to prevent further miscalculations. The process was disheartening but he was used to it. Trial and Error and all that jazz. "I should return to my work. Thank you for your assistance but I won't ask of you any longer. You're free to take the rest of the day off, if you like."

  
There's a hint of either impatience or hurry in his voice. Willow makes an indiscernible noise in acknowledgement, pulling herself off the desk. She can feel sharp eyes trailing her movement as she walks over to one of the many machines, tapping on it with her fingernail. "What's this thing?"

  
"Important. Please don't touch that." Wilson is quick to answer.

  
She moves, going over to prod at something hanging from a string over the metal table. It's a bright yellow and looks like clockwork gears, but strung up like a light. "Why is this like that?"

  
A sly smile tugs at the corners of her mouth as footsteps approach from behind her, irritation becoming more apparent in the polite man's tone as he spoke. "Also important. Nothing here should be of any use to you."

  
"Oh really?" She laughs. Wilson feels a skip in his chest. Anxiety, most likely. Willow spins on her heel to taunt him but stops short when she see's a bead of sweat appear on the scientist's head. He looks nervous, just as he did when she first entered the room. What? Did he think she was going to break all of his super duper expensive equipment? How rude, especially since she just took the time to patch him up.

  
A hiccup of worry comes from him as she skips to a box in the corner of lab, a heavy looking lid not too far from it that probably got blown off in the blast. Peering inside, there's a strange assortment of items; Colorful rocks, somewhat wrapped in a shiny grey paper. A bright, fiery red one catches her eye and she coo's in soft wonder. She reaches a hand out to touch it.

  
A larger, quicker hand catches her own, wrapping around between her wrist and her palm and swinging her arm away from the box in a jagged motion. Willow's smile dissappears, brow's furrowing as she swivels to head and freezes.

  
Wilson holds her hand tightly, distress clearly evident on his features. "If you do not want to lose your hand, I _highly recommend_ you don't. touch. anything."

  
A fire brims in her chest as he tries to pull away from him but he holds fast, securely gripping her with his good hand. Anxiety begins to build in her. Was he going to fire her? Was he going to let her go? Another began to bubble and mix in with the swirling thoughts, anger. "Was that a threat?" She utters. "I didn't plan on breaking any of you shit-"

  
The grip on her wrist tightens, "That mineral there is made of a highly toxic concentrated substance that will no doubt rot off your finger tips if you touch it without the proper gear." His voice is louder than usual, "That is not a threat, Miss Willow. That object is not a pretty little stone. It's a danger."

  
The stubbornness in her wants to yell back as to why he keeps such a haphazardness material out in the open anyways. But stubborn Willow also wants her hand back, to which she tugs to no avail. "Fine. Sorry I almost touched your stupid rock." She knows she doesn't really sound sorry but hopes it's enough to get him off her back. "Can you let me go now?"

  
Wilson gives her a look of disbelief, "You promise not to touch anything?"

  
"Yeah, sure."

  
He hesitates, tired eyes glancing towards the door before releasing her. Willow goes to rub her wrist and finds that hardly no marks adorn her skin, as if he was being extra careful not to clutch too hard onto whilst keeping her in his grasp. The thought irks her for some reason.

  
Wilson sighs, running his good hand through his hair. Silence fell between them, two adults standing without a word in a ruined lab. He takes a look to the rubble, half lidded eyes scanning over the wreckage and back over to his failed work, the broken beaker pieces that didn't end up in his arm, the liquid that was once inside of it now split over a tattered document of his.

  
He glances to see Willow shuffled behind him, arms crossed and mood ruined. He sighs. "Perhaps we can leave it be for now. We can attend to it later once we're both in better spirits." He offers peace. "Are you hungry?"

  
Willow doesn't look at him fully, but sends a small huff his way. "Starving."

  
Wilson smiles. "Put on your coat and I'll meet you downstairs after I've changed into something more presentable." The ruined sleeve of his undershirt was the only clothing piece damaged, but the rest of him is notably dirty with debris markings. "There's a small shop in town that serves decent food. I am in a need for more materials anyways, so we should take the opportunity."

  
The girl stuck her chin up, staring at him with a look of apparent confusion. "Um..."

  
The scientist's catches on. "As your boss, I'll pay. Consider it my treat and an apology for earlier."

  
Of course that's not the question that was coming to mind, but she'll take it. The less money she has to spend on food the more candles she can buy. Besides, they're co-workers so it's fine. Even now, the thought of a free meal is starting to lighten her mood. "Sure, why not." She allows her face to become friendly again. "What about your eyebrows though?"

  
It takes Wilson a moment of thinking before snapping his fingers, spinning and walking over to a cabinet Willow finds way too tall to be in this tiny attic. It's on the scorched side of the room, she notes. "I've got just the concoction for that." His back is facing her but she can hear the grin in the scientist's voice. The man swings open the doors, the sound of glass clinking as he searches through vials in a random assortion.

  
Willow takes a few steps forward to try and peer over his shoulder before he says something in pleasant surprise, holding up a vial with a strange, green colored liquid inside. "Never quite liked using these, you know. But I'm glad I held onto them." He hums, uncorking the vial and turning to face her with a wide, proud look. "Behold."

  
Shock is the first thing that hits her as she watches the man down the vial's contents in one gulp, wiping his mouth and standing at attention. Didn't he just say the entire lab was dangerous or something? Did her teasing go too far?

  
The alarm she feels still doesn't match the indescribable feeling she gets when she blinks and suddenly he has eyebrows again. And a beard. A really thick beard.

  
She wants to yell. "....What was _that_?"

  
Wilson beems at her, hands on his hip and pride in his pose. "Science!"

  
They have a semi-pseudo staring contest, then, Willow sinks her face into her hands. Laughter breaks its way through her fingers. A giggly, hiccuppy laughter. The kind when you don't know how or what you just witnessed but the outcome is undeniably hilarious. Her boss went from looking like an naked mole-rat to an looking as if he glued a Pomeranian to his chin.

  
Said man is still in pose, a nervous twitch going through his fingers as he watches his assistant lose herself with laughter. What that too weird? Too crazy? Sure it was a strange sight to grow back facial hair in a matter of seconds but this wasn't even his best inventions, really. One of his firsts he made a young man! If she's as opened minded as he hopes to believe then she's surely not laughing out of ridicule, but in amazement! Right?

  
Willow catches her breathe, wiping a tear from her eye. That's the second time in the day she's lost herself laughing. "So this is what you've been working on up here."  
"No, not quite." Wilson responds, "It's an old invention of mine, a prototype really. I was originally planning a to create a serum that could regrow amputated limbs but so far only had success in very fast hair growth." He lets out a nervous chuckles. "Not my best work, I'm afraid. But useful sometimes."

  
"That is probably the weirdest thing I've ever seen in my life." Willow snorts. Pretty weird for someone who's immune to all flames. "It's great, Higgsbury."

  
Wilson blinks. "Is that what you think?"

  
"Yeah, I think it's neat."

  
A giddy feeling welled up inside of him, but his gentleman's demeanor forced him to prevent from it making itself know. "I see. Thank you, I suppose." Willow waved him off, walking towards the door and extending one foot towards the stairs. "Whatever. Does that mean we can go get something to eat now?"

  
Wilson twirls the empty vial between his fingers, gaze traveling from the vial up to Willow, patiently awaiting an answer from him by the door. He stokes his newly grown beard in thought. "Certainly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally only supposed to be like 2,000 words or something but I kept writing and ended up with around 5,000. I didn't even get to the point where it was supposed to end in my planner but we'll get to that in the next chapter oops.   
> Also, Wx-78 won't be 'finished' for a few more chapters but don't worry the bot is coming along.  
> I haven't really polished this chapter up too much so if it reads weird to you sorry about that.
> 
> Happy Holidays!


	4. Lunch With a Devilish Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson treats Willow out to lunch in continuation from the previous chapter, and runs into some acquaintances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find writing Maxwell and Charlie difficult yet interesting to do, so I hope their interactions made sense. This is also a direct continuation from the previous chapter, although the next chapter will likely not be. 
> 
> Also, spot the hidden shipwrecked character ;)

The trip into town was uneventful enough, unless you count Willow’s small commentary. Wilson had shaved, thankfully, into a much more manageable scruff. The gentleman said it would dashing with his overcoat, the assemble of a gentleman. Though it looked more of a 5’o Clock shadow than that. Still, better than whatever bush he had before.

Willow adjusts her coat, turning up the collar against the wind. It was one of the first things she had bought with her paychecks. Simple, cheap, not at all flashy, though she wouldn't necessarily be against one as such. The scientist is wearing something of a darker fabric but nearly the same style. It didn’t look very warm, but he didn’t seemed bothered by the cold.

Her hand travels down to pat the lighter in her coat pocket, missing how he spies the motion out of the corner of his eye. What a strange thing to take with you on a lunch trip.

“I come here once in a blue moon, you know.” Wilson catches her attention, walking towards a small little shop cafe in between two larger buildings. “The man who owns this place is a culinary expert. ”

She gives him a look. “I thought you didn’t get out much.”

“I don’t.” He retorts, saying nothing more and reaching for the door of said establishment. He twists the handle and swings it open, a polite nod of the head and gesturing her inside. “Ladies first.” The comment makes Willow snort, striding past him. “Woooow. Such a gentleman.”

Wilson follows behind her, hands in pockets. “As one should be.”

The cafe is small and cozy, though it was painted in blues and whites, washed out walls an array of tables scattered about the room with a bar on the far side. There’s a single man tending to a few  sparse customers up front, curly hair pulled up into a bun and a kind smile as he takes their orders.

The place seemed nice enough, though seaside decorations weren’t really appealing to her and neither were sums of people. Some of which turned their heads to stare as they walked in. Some quickly turned away, whispering to one another while others boldly held their gaze with a mix of curiosity and judgment. Suddenly, Willow felt very, very conscious of how she stood, or how her coat looks.

She sneaks a glance to Wilson to gage his reaction as well, but the scientist’s face is neutral, seemly unaffected. Or apathetic to it. Sharp eyes catch her staring and the firestarter feels a nervous frog in her throat, but he catches onto her thoughts and gives a reassuring look, opening his mouth to speak.

A older voice interrupts him. “Say, Pal. It’s been quite a while since we’ve ran into each other like this.”

Wilson’s eyes looks behind her and his face immediately turns sour, Willow follows his sight; a sharp dressed man and smiling woman sitting at a window table. The woman’s face is round and looks pleasantly surprised, she thinks. The older man’s, however, clasps his hands together with a grin that can’t quite be called sinister, but not exactly friendly either.

Wilson’s voice is nearly a sneer. “Decent day to you, Maxwell.”

Maxwell’s grin doesn’t falter. “And to you, Higgsbury.” Grey eyes shift and find Willow, eyeing her with interest. “And what guest did you bring with you? Miss?”

“Wi-”

“My assistant.”

The firestarter stops, squinting at the scientist from the corner of her eye. He’s visibly uncomfortable, almost nearly as he was when she first entered his lab earlier. Though, no embarrassment, only tension. Still, interrupting her was very ungentlemanly of him. “A friend of yours?” She says, uncaring if the present company heard.

He doesn’t look at her, but instead frowning at the peak of curiosity that enters Maxwell’s eyes at the word ‘assistant.’ This would spell trouble. “Hardly. He’s simply an acquantance of mine.”

“Now, don’t joke so harshly.” The older man chuckles, “Come, sit down with me and Charlie, Higgsbury. Why don’t you introduce me to you’re lovely assistant?.” His tone is innocent though words feel oddly selected. It makes the scientist’s frown turn deeper.

Willow takes a moment and glances at the woman, (Charlie, is that what he called her?) wearing a coat much like her own, though a lovely shade of crimson, with a matching hat. Her hair charcoal black and her lips tinted a dark red, like dying flames in the fireplace. Her demeanor is warm like fire too, the woman radiating friendliness much unlike her sharply dressed counterpart.

The brunette grins and prompty takes a seat next to the red-clad woman, ignoring her co-workers shocked burning stare as she did so. If this was an opportunity to make a female friend, (a pretty one at that, too.) then she was not going to lose it. The woman scoots a little to the side to allow her more room in the booth, a shy smile on her face. She gives a little wave of her hand in greeting

Willow briefly registers Wilson’s form reluctantly taking a seat besides Maxwell before returning a little wave of her own. “My name isn't actually 'assistant' by the way.”

The scientist huffs something under his breath but goes quiet under Maxwell’s stare. Charlie giggles, “Yes, I had assumed that much. Please forgive my friend here,-” she gestures towards Maxwell in a playful sense though he doesn’t seem offended. “We were not expecting to run into Mr. Higgsbury so soon, and with a guest as well.”

The firestarter raises a brow. “So soon?”

“I have business to discuss with Maxwell. Though I was holding it off until a later date that seemed more appropriate.” Wilson instructs. His fingers tap against the table mindlessly and his gaze tracks the figure of the man behind the bar, as if silently willing him to come to their table. Maxwell sits up straighter, a hum in his voice. “Now would be a good time as any, since we’re all already here.”

Wilson gives him a deadpan look. “Perhaps later then.”

There’s a tense, familiar yet strange way they speak to each other that Willow can’t desperate it. Charlie, however, looks bothered by their behavior, tilting her head at the brunette and giving a knowing nod. This must be normal then. Great, mark that off of the list of ‘things that willow has discovered about her boss’s oh-so-secretive life so far’.

The firestarter puts her elbows on the table, resting her head in her palm and sighs. “I’m starving.”

“I can fix that for you.”

The four turn to the voice, a man in a chef’s apron (was he a chef, a waiter? Did he run this whole place by himself?) approached them. The smell of spices and food wavers off of him, making her stomach ache. A feeling of near-giddiness spikes in her, matching the man’s enthusiasm with her own.

Maxwell orders something in french-or, at least Willow thinks it’s french- she’s never heard before, Charlie ordering some desert that sounded delirious to even hear it’s name. Wilson, with his still-present frown, orders a simple coffee, black with two sugars. The curly haired man writes this down with ease and his attention turns to Willow. “and you, Miss?”

Willow freezes. What was she supposed to order? When was the last time she was even in a restaurant? Younger? When she was singing for spare change, earning just enough to purchase a small bread roll fresh from the oven? Or when she tried to steal purses and bags when their owners weren’t looking, effectively getting her banned from many of the renowned establishments in her home town.

There’s a menu laying on the table in front of her, unopened and ignored. Her eyebrows furrow, timidly flipping through the only 2 pages, pictures of food and small texts underneath she can’t read. Her hunger and curiosity had made her mind seemly forget that this might as well be the first time she’s ever dined out.

The four sets of eyes on her linger and she swallows. Perhaps she should just say she’s not hungry-

“For the Miss, a cup of tea and….” Wilson pipes up, gathering the attention. He glances at the stunned firestarter and turns back to the man. “The spiciest stew you have? The lady is new in town, you see.”

Relief floods Willow, as well as small bit of irritation. Her boss was strange, awkward one moment yet perfectly stable the next. The extent of his manner shows.

“I have the perfect welcoming dish, then.” The man jots something down on the notepad, pocketing it and giving a nod. “I’ll return shortly.” He says. Maxwell is the one to give him thanks as he sets himself behind the bar and begins to pour coffee into a cup, presumably for their table.

Willow traces a fingernail over the menu, giving a slight huff once he was out of earshot. “I could have ordered on my own.” She looks away, “Thanks, though.”

The man returns with his coffee before walking away once more, to which Wilson picks up the cup and gives a little shrug. “I said it was my treat.” She watches him take a slow sip of his coffee, suddenly startled and biting down on his lip. “Damn, scalding!” He hisses. A twitch tugs at the fire starter's mouth.

It’s at this moment that Maxwell makes himself known again. “How kind of you to treat your assistant, Mr. Higgsbury.” He chuckles. “I’m shocked. I wasn’t aware you were type of person to even take on helping hands.”

“I have my reasons,” The shorter man defends himself rather quickly. “To study the sciences is a very taxing and time consuming lifestyle. I hardly have the time for other things, it’s not unusual to hire help for such reasons.” As if to emphasize, he tilts his head towards Charlie. (Whom’s face lights up at the sudden acknowledgement.) “As you may already know.”

Maxwell doesn’t frown but there’s a shift in his attitude. “I work with audiences around the world, with a array of people. Of course I can take on an assistant. But you? You live in a cabin in the middle of the bloody woods. That’s no safe work environment.”

“My home and lab are perfectly safe to house and employ another person!” The scientist snaps, “At least my work it legitimate. There’s no tricks, no gimmicks, only the undaunted pursuit of knowledge.”

“You’re home, you say? She’s living with you?” Maxwell barks out a single hearty laugh, one fist coming to land on the table. “I feel sorry for the girl. Being trapped inside a mad man’s house must be terrifying.”

People have begun to stare, peering over from their own tables onto theirs. Wilson grits his teeth. “I am not mad.”

“Not quite. But you’re getting there.” Maxwell’s voice is low and foreboding. “And don’t you tell me your opinion of my work when you refuse to attend a single one of my shows, Higgsbury. What I do in a single act gets more recognition than fifty of your published works to date.”

“That’s because it’s all a bunch of sweet lies, you and your ‘magic’. None of it’s real, just cheap tricks used to fool gullible people. My findings will benefit humanity as a whole, soon. My name reknown. You’ll be remembered as a fraud.”

“A fraud? Me? I have reached hearts around the world, audiences from every corner of the earth. All of them are entertained by my shows. You’re the one who can’t even hold a public face without help.”

It may have just been a trick of the light, but Wilson seemed to flinch. “That’s absurd. I don’t need help.”

“Yet you hired some, didn’t you? You’re continuous denial of your impotence poses an annoyance to me and the people around you. I question why I ever had faith in your work.”

“My work will do more than entertain, unlike yourself. It can improve lives, enrich and educate them!”

“HA! Is that what you told your ‘assistant’? Lured her in with ideas of grander and unchecked ambitions you’ll never reach?”

Willow feels a headache coming on. “I’m literally right here.”

Charlie shoots her a glance of sympathy when her complaint goes unheard as the arguing continues. The pyro leans towards the darker haired woman and whispers, a hint of annoyance in her tone. “This happen often?”

A soft sigh is the response. “Yes, unfortunately. Too often.”

“At least the rabbits in my show stay alive when it’s finished, Higgsbury. How many animal corpses do you keep for your experiments in that bloody lab of yours?”

“Now you’re just making wild accusations!”

“And you’re going to prove me wrong how? Who’s going to vouch for you?”

“Myself. I don’t need your damn approval of my work, Carter. You know nothing of the world of science so stick to stuffing rabbits into hats and pushing cards up your sleeve!”

“Pushing cards up my-?!” Maxwell halts mid-sentence, the anger that broke through his once malevolent expression softening as his eyes trail down to a smaller hand covering the fist he slammed down at the table. Charlie smiles up at him, patting his hand with tender affection it’s almost undeserving of him. “Maxy, the food is here.”

All four figures turn to the curly haired man standing at the end of the table, balancing four plates on his arms. He holds an awkward expression, though no where near as harsh as the judgmental, nosy eyes staring at them from within the building. He shuffles on his feet, keeping all dishes perfectly stable. “I, uh….can come back later?”

“Oh, no, no. Please,-” Wilson stutters, all raging from before now melting into embarrassment. “We’ll take it from here, thank you. Apologies for any troubles, sir.” Willow can see a hint of red spreading across his face like wildfire, but his shaved scruff makes it a bit less noticeable. A passing thought wonders if they're going to get kicked out. It wouldn't be a first for her, but she briefly wonders if Wilson has ever had the experience as well.

With a nod and another apology, (From Maxwell this time, though it seems more effortless.) The stares from around slowly dissipate, leaving them to eat their food in-relative-peace. Willow scans over whatever the man had brought her. A bowl of chili? Little red peppers mixed with meat and beans, it looked like. It certainly smelled good, enough to make her mouth water.

Charlie notices her staring at the bowl, taking a bite of a strawberry cake she ordered herself. “I’ve had that before, it’s really good. Too hot for me though.” She laughs, “I do hope that Mr. Higgsbury hasn’t tried to pull a nasty trick on you.” Her voice is light and playful, a stark contrast (and much needed change) to the previous atmosphere.

Said Higgsbury sighs but says nothing, sipping at his coffee. Willow’s stomach grumbles as she takes the fork and scoops up a bite. She hesitates. Wasn’t she supposed to say thank you? You know, since she wasn’t paying for it. Way too hungry to wait though, besides, all that arguing was annoying anyway. He said it was his treat too.

She takes the bite, hot spice in her mouth. Her face brightens. “This is really good!” Willow misses the way Wilson relaxes at her exclamation but Charlie doesn’t. Tired eyes meet playful ones, and she restrains a laugh when he quickly adverts his from the firestarter and dark-haired woman both. The rose-lipped woman glances to Maxwell in thought. He used to act in such a way too; how quaint.

Maxwell clasps his hands as his face returns to it’s original grin, the food on his plate already half-eaten. “I apologize for earlier, it was a terrible first expression of me. I see you and Charlie have become acquainted.” It takes Willow a moment for her to realize that she’s the one he’s talking to. He extends a hand across the table. The way he moves feels like greeting from the devil. “Maxwell Carter. Miss?”

“Eilloh” Her mouth is full of chili.

He pauses, thinking. “Willow?” A nod of her head. “Ah, So Miss Willow…..?”

She swallows. “Just Willow.”

Alike Wilson, his reaction faint but noticeable. But he does a better job of covering it up more quickly. “Pleased to meet your acquaintance.” He greets, unaffected by her grumbling in response. Manner practice be damned, just for today. She was starving and this chili was the bee’s knees.

Wilson feels Maxwell’s attention shift onto him, the olderman leaning an elbow on the table. “Now, with introductions out of the way. Let’s discuss what exactly you needed to speak with me about.” There’s a professional sense about him now, whatever hostility from before now blended into a cold, charming demeanor.

Wilson tries to take a pause to sip at his coffee just to sigh when his cup turns up empty. “I need to call in on that favor you owe me. I'm missing an important part for a project and i have the feeling it’s last puzzle piece is more around your ‘area of expertise’.” He reveals.

Maxwell ponders on this for a moment. “And what exactly is this needed for?”

“Its a secret.”

The olderman’s mouth sinks into a look of suspicious but its waved off. “Fine, it'll probably end up as another failure regardless. Secrets or not you're still uncannily predictable.” The younger man shoots him an annoyed glance but says nothing retort.

He digs his hands through an inner pocket of his waistcoat, pulling out a small piece if paper and a convenient travel pen. Willow is finishing up the last bites on her chili (she notes that she was the last one eating, everyone else seemed finished) and watched with mild interest as he scribbles something down and curtly hands it to Wilson.

“I expect you to be punctual, pal.” Maxwell comments. The scientist gives a quick nod and a stern look, scanning over the writings before pocketing the paper.

“While it was certainly a lovely coincidence to run into you both, I'm afraid to admit that me and my assistant must return home now.” Wilson digs out a few bills from his inner coat pocket and lays them down on the table. The firestarter wants to inspect and count just to see how much hes paying for the meal but the attitude he holds feels like hes ready to go and leave immediately. She'll just ask about it later. “We have work to do. If you’ll excuse us, Maxwell.” He dismisses the sharp dressed fellow before giving a more polite farewell to the red-clad woman. “Charlie. Good day.”

Charlie watches Willow stand to follow him, waving her fingers with a hint of mirth in her smile. “We should eat again together sometime. Perhaps away from our gentlemen.” She teases.

The pryo nods (and frankly ignores the implications in her sentence) and flashes her teeth with a equally pleased grin. “Yeah, I'd like that actually.”

Wilson holds the door out for her as they leave, to which she teases him again for it, except theirs no banter to her response. The trio back to the cabin is proving to be increasingly more silent. It's unnerving to say the least, especially when she looks over to him and finds him staring off into space as he moves.

She resists the urge to snap her fingers at him. “Watcha thinking about?”

He blinks, eyes widening and nearly jolts when he turns to her, as if he had forgotten she was beside him in the first place. “Just musing. About work. Science, and the like.”

Willow makes an noncommittal noise. It sounds like baloney but she shrugs and doesn't push the question further. “So how about that Maxwell fellow? How'd you meet a guy like him.”

His hands seem to fix his cuffs subconsciously, looking away as if to ponder a distant memory. “Its a long story, one I don't wish to recall since he’s an snobby prick.”

The sudden insult is so oddly out of character for the man shes known for months that she cant help but let out laughter in surprise. “You hate him?”

“We'll I'm certainly not in love with the man if that's what your implying.” He replies back in sarcasm. His tone is ever so slightly sour, but there's a lightheartedness to it. “Really? I thought you two would look like a cute couple.” She snickers. Wilson sighs and shakes his head. “Hilarious.”

She wants to continue teasing him, a full belly of food.and new friend did wonders for her mood, but she spies him nervously shuffling his coat better over him and decides against it. She'll wait until hes a little less guarded, she thinks.

“So.” Willow starts again, quietly noting they're almost to the house. “How'd you guess I'd like the spicy food?”

Wilson glances at her, gaze lightly falling over the pocket where she keeps her trusty lighter and shrugs. “I had a hypothesis.”


	5. Stars Are Only Pretty From a Distance

It wasn’t immediate at first, but Wilson is beginning to be more lenient with her coming into his lab. Reluctantly, of course.

The scientist discovers that while the woman was certainly mannerable when necessary, there was some areas that needed improvement. Willow knows this, part of her cares and part of her doesn’t, it’s getting easier to act more comfortably in the house, much to Wilson’s chagrin because she’s developed the habit of straight up walking into the attic unannounced. Sometimes if he’s lucky, she’ll take the time to knock before she barges in.

The first time she does it he shoos her out. (“I’m working on something very delicate!” He says, but his gloved hands are covered in slimy green goo and it’s not exactly convincing.) Still, privacy is preferred and having his sanctuary opened up to another human being was something he realizes he’s just going to have to get used to. His assistant, it seemed, did not heed to warnings or requests to be left alone.

When she swings open the door to tell him that they’re out of milk and he nearly stabs himself in the hand with a scalpel in surprise, Wilson decides that if she wasn’t going to stay out of the room, she was going to have to abide by the rules for it.

Amber eyes watch as he puts the dissection tools to the side, scooting the tray over and it’s poor unfortunate victim of science-it’s something shiny and yellow, but she can’t tell from this distance- to the edge of the table so he can lean against it and give her the look. You know, the kind of look that a mother gives her child when she’s told them not to do something and they do it right in front of her. She holds back a smirk; it suits him. She briefly wonders why she hasn’t been fired yet.

“There’s such a thing called knocking, you know.” He began. “And you don’t need to tell me that we’re out as soon as you notice. If you need it that badly, you can go to the market and get some more yourself, I’ll reimburse you for however much, but I can’t afford to keep interrupting my work for something as mundane as milk.” His tone is polite, but naggy in her opinion.

Willow does a coy little smile. “Needed an excuse to come up here and see what you were doing.”

He blinks before his mouth turns into a flat line. “Of course. What exactly do you need?”

She shuffles at the door, staying put in the door frame. He’ll give her kudos for that, at least. “Something to do. I’m bored and all the books in the living room are way too nerdy for me.” She sighs. He’s not going to ask why she was going through all of his bookshelves in the first place. “Figured I’d come up here and help out with-” She gestures towards the entirety of the room. “-whatever you’re working on, I guess.”

The scientist raises a brow, slightly shifting so his body shields the work notes scattered on the desk from her view. It’s appears to be a sub-conscious motion, though Willow already knows how defensive he is about it. “Something to do?” He repeats, “I thought I gave you a list of things needing to be done.” Isn’t that the reason why he’s paying her?

She puts her hands on her hips and gives a almost prideful grin. “Done.”

Wilson scoffs. “You sorted the mail and sent out the letters I gave you?” She nods at him and he hopes she wasn’t nosy enough to read through them. That would probably be a mistake on his part. “And you cleaned out the living area? The kitchen?” The woman rolls her eyes, but responds with a nod. “And the fireplace.”

As Wilson theorized, her grin returns with full force. “Yep! It’s really clean now.” She beems at him. He wonders if she actually dug out the ash and soot or just kept the fire blazing until it was all evaporated in the flames. She had a knack for doing that, he noted. Strange.

Still, it’s only half past five and he thought he had given her enough work to leave him alone for the day. It appears not. He crosses his arms and voices in mirth. “You even weeded the garden?”

The grin falters into a frown. “Yeah, I weeded your stupid garden.”

“The entire garden?”

“All your ugly carrots are nice and pretty now. It’s supposed to rain later so I’m not going back out there.” She huffs. The scientist takes a deep breathe and feels his own smile tugging at his mouth. He really shouldn’t be interrogated her like this, but the reactions had such interesting results. “Very well. Thank you for your work, Miss Willow.”

He waves her off in hopes that she’ll take the cue and bugger off to enjoy her free time somewhere else, but instead she takes it as an invitation, sauntering further into the room and looking over his shoulder. Before, Wilson may have felt anxiety shoot up his spine as this woman scans over his work, zeroing in on the diagrams he’s left out in the open. Now, it’s just curiosity.

“Can I help you with something?” He asks.

Willow turns to him and bluntly points to the subject on the tray. “Is that a rock? Are you seriously dissecting a rock?”

The dark haired man shakes his head. “No. Well, yes. That’s not important. Is there something I can do for you? Or do you plan on antagonizing me for your own entertainment.” The last part comes out before he can filter it into something more appropriate and Wilson pauses, slightly shocked at his own behavior.

Willow doesn’t seem affected by it though. “Can I help?”

Well, she could certainly help by leaving the poor scientist to focus, but Wilson already knew that she was not going to abide by that request. She’s looking at his expectantly, and he finds himself taking a gloved hand and running it threw his hair in thought. “This is work for a scientist. A trained, knowledgeable, scientist.” He says. He’d continue if anything else he had to say wouldn’t come off as rude.

She pauses, takes a moment for thought, before promptly poking the item and laughing as he flinches at her actions. He yells something with a thick enough accent that Willow doesn’t even bother to decipher. “Have you lost your bloody marbles?!” He yells, eyes darting between the skin of her hands and the glint of the gem. “Gloves! You’re not wearing gloves!”

He raises a hand to snatch it from her but she pulls it away just in time. Willow ignores his cursing and flips the object in her hands. It’s hard, shiny, not as pretty as the red gem she saw before but a pretty yellow color, kind like gold but not gold. It’s pretty heavy in her hands.

“I think you’re just paranoid.” She holds it up to him, far away from his grabby fingers. “See? It’s harmless. It’s just a dumb rock.” She teases. “What? Are you so scared of someone finding out about your secret pebble collection?”

Wilson gulps, frozen as he awaits for her hands to start blistering. They don’t. In fact, it appears just as she said, pretty and harmless. He lets a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and releases the tension in his shoulders, though a bewildered look decorates his face. Either he was lied to and all his notes on this particular gem were wrong, or perhaps this was a defective case.

He watches her toss it up and down in mock and quietly notes to double check all of the information later. “This kind of behavior is dangerous in a laboratory! You can’t just mess with things you don’t know anything about, at least, not without the proper gear.”

He plucks the gem mid-air as she tossed it, briefly checking it for any changes before settling it back on the tray. “These gloves are made of a strong material resistant to nearly every element that you can think of. They’re safer than your bare hands.”

When he turns back to her, she’s pouting. It irks him in a way he can’t name, so he takes on a gentler tone. “Please, I’d ask for you to be more careful if you’re going to be helping with the experiments.”

Willow perks up. “You said it. No take backs.”

Wilson blinks. “Wait. That’s not what I-” He cuts himself off because she’s already digging around through the drawers in the corner of the room, shuffling through various tools and papers he really need to get around to organizing. He inwardly groans as he watches her pick up a few items, scanning them over them before losing interesting and putting them back in their place before stopping at a table adjacent to the desk he was currently working at.

The decision, he realizes, was apparently already made once she set foot through his door with the sole purpose of alleviating her boredom. This will be an interesting experiment. “Be careful near those, they’re not quite done.”

She holds her hands behind her back, much to Wilson’s relief, and doesn’t touch her newest found interest; a set of beakers all filled with a assortment of liquids of many sizes and colors, each lit and simmering at a low temperature. She has half a mind to pick one up, and he partly expects her to but she refrains. “Whatcha cooking over here?”

The scientist in him overwhelms the nerves he has. “A concoction that when poured on a seedling of a very specific breed can accelerates it’s growth from sapling to it’s fully mature version of itself within a specified short amount of time.” He answered. She looks at him weirdly. “It’s supposed to make a tree grow really fast.”

“I knew that.” Willow hums, turning back to the small flame of the beaker burners. It’s puny, even smaller than what her lighter could produce but it’s pretty all the same. It doesn’t smell like fire though, not like charcoal or smoke but of chemicals and a faint scent of soil as well. Still, it’s cute and just barely big enough for her to stick her pinky in if she wanted to.

She glances out of the corner of her eye, Wilson is fiddling with something on the desk, (All those papers, the diagrams from before shuffled into a drawer before she can come over and mess with them again, she supposes. Perhaps that was a bit rude of her.) and debates allowing herself the chance to touch the baby fire.

“Where do you get any of this stuff, anyways?” She questions. Wilson makes a noise, turning his head and she can see he’s flipped his goggles downwards over his eyes again. He’s holding the yellow gem in one hand, a knife in the other.

“Stuff?” He thinks for a moment. “Oh, right. All the equipment here was either bought or built by yours truly. Tools and other gear are the same, some were provided to me from various sponsors, if you must know.”

A curious spark lights in her eyes, something Wilson finds endearing, though unnerving considering her past behavior. “What about all the rocks and this mumbo jumbo?” She points a finger to the beakers, (her hand is close to the flames but he says nothing. She hasn’t listening to him before, and he wasn’t about to spend his day nagging a grown woman.) He waves her question off. “Various sources.”

“What about that thing?” She gestures to his hand holding the gem.

Wilson hesitates, “A friend.”

This causes the firestarter to raise a brow, temporarily taking her attention away from the puny flame and instead stare holes into the man’s back, who seemed quite intent on focusing on his work. “I thought you didn’t have friends?”

When he turns, there’s a playful grin on his face and a glint of light shining off his goggles. “Well, I have you now, don’t I?”

Willow breathes out her nose and sticks out her tongue. Stupid nerd trying to divert the subject. “Well, yeah. But friends don’t usually give each other shiny yellow looking diamonds and that are supposedly-” She does air quotes with her fingers and Wilson puffs out his lip at the sight. “ -‘super dangerous’.”

He hums in response, turning back to the questionable item at hand. Her gaze darts to the flame again. “I suppose you can call us colleges of a sort, though one of us is a bit young for that title.” He voices, gloved fingers turning over the gem as he prodded at it. “I suppose I’ll have to introduce you to her. You could pick up deliveries for me, if the need ever arises.”

Her finger freezes centimeters from the fire, retracting her hand and furrowing her brows. Her? “Is she a scientist as well?” Willow asks.

Wilson doesn’t turn from his work. “No. She’s eleven.”

Oh. “You’re dissecting rocks that you got from an eleven year old’s rock collection? Seriously?” The firestarter exclaims. The urge to stick her entire hand in the fire and let it run up her arm is there, but she double checks to see if he’s watching.

“These are not ‘rocks’, and she’s a smart young lady, although a bit too obsessed with the paranormal nonsense.” He partially defends, quickly scanning over a paragraph of notes. “I’m sure both of you ladies would get along well.”

He hears her make a noise of acknowledgment, a moment of silence falling between them. The scalpel makes a small crack in the hard skin of the gem, the faintest line in the rock. Adjusting his goggles, Wilson sets down the tool and tilts the item up to for the crack to face him.

It’s small, hardly noticeable against the bright, smooth yellow of the rest of gem, but it almost looks as if the inside is glowing. Almost.

A jittery feeling spikes up in him, carefully putting it down and snatching a pen to jot the information on paper. Unnamed mineral: Bright yellow color. Heavy; undetermined weight. Reflects light exceptionally well. Light coming from inside. May be filled with a particularly reflective material.

Satisfied with his entry, Wilson swivels from his spot with a wide smile, flipping up his goggles. “Miss Willow, I’d like you to come see this-”

He stops. Willow removes her hand from the beaker’s flame with a lightning quick reflexes and hides it behind her back, eyes darting from the fire to the scientist. He’s staring at her. Processing.

“See what?” She asks, a nervous giggle in the back of her throat. Her heart rate increases when he doesn’t answer right away, her fingers twitching behind her. They’re still burning. She flexes them, trying to put them out quickly. “Find something interesting with the rock-?”

“I saw that.” Oh, how blunt.

Willow feels the fire die in her hands, but keeps them behind her, tension in her shoulders and anxiety flooding her chest. She needs to say something, she knows this. But it’s difficult, and a worthy enough explanation or excuse isn’t forming fast enough in her head.

The brunette opens her mouth in an attempt to explain but is interrupted. “I did tell you to be more careful.” Wilson sighs, moving from his spot to pull open a drawer and pull out a familiar first aid kit. “Please refrain from touching any of the experiments for now, at least for today. If you want, I can order another pair of gloves for you and teach you how to properly handle the equipment.” He stresses.

The anxiety lessens, and the firestarter feels a small surge of relief at his lecture. It’s short lived, however, because he’s approaching her with familiar bandages and pink goop in an jar and she knows for a damn fact there’s not going to be single scorching burn on the skin of her hands. How exactly was she going to explain that.

“Oh, thanks. But I don’t need it.” She attempts to discourage him, taking a step back as he approaches. He looks at her funny but doesn’t close the distance between them. Then, as if he realized something, his raises a hand in mock of peace. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. Mistakes happen.”

“No, I mean.” Willow fumbles for words. “I don’t need it. I didn’t actually touch it, really.”

Sharp eyes narrow on her. “You pulled away so suddenly, I’m sure it stung you. Hold out your hand.” He waits, expectant for her to comply but is dumbfounded when his assistant pulls further away, her hand securely covered behind her. “Let me do it.” She protests.

“You didn’t know how to treat burns until last week.”

“Ok, so?” She’s nervous, and Wilson can tell. He’s only slightly irritated that she’s in his laboratory, touching things she’s not supposed to now but vaguely wondering why what she’s so embarrassed of.

He reaches out his own hand, holding the medical supplies in the other. Wilson copies the tone he’s heard many fellow doctors use before. “Hand, please.”

Willow swallows, brings out her arm and lets her palm rest in his own.

Gloved fingers gently turn her hand over and blanks when he finds her skin clean. “Huh. I suppose you hadn’t touched it after all.”

The absolute luck she feels in his assumption is so absurd that it doesn’t hit her until he lets her hand fall back to her side. “I’m sorry for doubting you. But I cannot stress enough that you watch what your doing.” He returns to the desk, putting the first aid and  all of it’s components back in place. "Promise me you'll try not to catch yourself on fire? You apparently have a talent nearly doing so."

The assistant's fingers twitch. “I will.”

“I’ll hold you to that, then.” He smiles. She feels like she just got away with lying. In some sense, she really did. “Would you like to come see what I’ve discovered?”

Eager for a change of subject, Willow approaches him with arms crossed. Wilson holds up the gem from before; it sparkles from the light, the setting sun’s rays that flood through the window makes it looks as if a dim, warm glow was coming off of it. A closer look tells her that there’s a tiny crack in it now, the inside revealing a bright light, but too small of an opening to be strong.

“Huh.” She hums, glancing at him. He’s staring at the item, a mix of wonder and accomplishment within his grin. “So, a rock. But like, super shiny.”

Her jest is a bit premature but is eases her mind anyways. Wilson actually chuckles this time, and it makes a smile dawn on her face. “Maybe it’s just a rock. Maybe not, but it seems to be filled with something very scientific.” His overuse of the that word makes her giggle. “I haven’t decided what to call it yet. I need a better idea of what it’s made of before we can assign it a title.”

He feels a poke on his arm, Willow winks at him. “Call it rock lemon.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Awwm c’mon!” She laughs in that flute-like sound again. It’s quite distracting. “You could totally find someone really stupid and sell it. People would totally buy it, too.” She steps back, a finger over the top of her lip and making her voice as deep as she could manage. “A rare, one of a kind diamond in the shape and color of a lemon! Buy now for the low price of a couple thousand bucks and surprise that special lady in your life!”

Wilson tries not to laugh, but ultimately fails. “That is the most ridiculous pitch I’ve ever heard of!” He jokes, “No woman with a decent sense of taste would ever accept a proposal of a man who offers her a tacky ring with a diamond named ‘rock lemon’.”

“Oh yeah? And how would you know?” Her voice is loud and full of mischief, leaning against the desk for support as she clutches her side. “Are you some sort of expert on what ladies like?”

“No, but did you know that a certain breed of penguins give shiny pebbles to females in order to court their affection? They like how it looks, and they pick the best one to put in their nest.” He snickers, holding it up for emphasis. The crack in it seems to glimmer. “Human women can’t be much different.”

The brunette snorts at his reasoning and puts a hand on her hip. Her face is so stretched from the smiling it feels like it’s going to get stuck that way. “That’s a really stupid theory you’ve got going on there.”

“You might be correct. There’s only one way to test it, though.”

Wilson brings the gem between the two of them and hold it out to her.

It takes her a second, a moment actually before the realization hits her and she bursts into a fit of giggles. “That is by far, the worst joke of a flirt I have ever seen in my life!” She laughs.

The scientist shrugs, a faint red on his face. “I said I was a scientist, not a casanova-”

_Crack._

Both adults stop, Willow’s bout of laughter ceasing into a breath of surprise as she looks down into his hand where the gem lay. A larger, more defined crack etched across it’s surface, looking deeper than it previously was. A bright light pours out from the crevice, washing them both in it. It’s emitting heat onto her, like a fully rambunctious bonfire, and she’s not even the one holding it.

Wilson is so startled he almost drops the gem itself, and is thankful he didn’t. His hand begins to slightly burn, like if one was holding a hot kettle, but the gloves are just barely enough to make it tolerable.

Scientist and assistant stare at each other with confusion. “Um,” Willow braces herself. “…Is this part of the joke?”

**_Crack._ **

A searing fire shoots through Wilson’s arm and he drops the gem with a yelp, clutching his right hand and stumbles away from the desk as it clatters onto the tray. He falls backwards onto the floor, a second thud tells him that Willow has done the same. Hard breathing, his scans his hand. A hole burnt through the glove, bloody skin that stung and shot pain through his limbs enough to make him wheeze. If he hadn’t of been wearing the gloves, he might as well have burnt his hand off.

“Holy shit!” Her voice sounds from beside him, scrambling to get back up. “What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know!” He wheezes, gritting his teeth and curling into himself, willing the pain to subside. It’s not the first burn he’s gotten, he’ll be fine, he knows this. But the feeling of agony in his limb keeps pushing him to believe other wise.

“It just…exploded! In my hand, I think.” Deep breathes, shaking fingers. Does he have all of his fingers? Check. Double check. He does, he’ll be fine. He’ll have a hand after this. His assistant?

Wilson feel’s her hands come around his shoulder in an attempt to steady him, one settling on the arm of his injured hand and a shocked gasp at the sight of blood and burnt flesh. It feels worse than it is, he knows. But her reaction was not helping. “Are you okay?” He asks, though his eyes shut in another twinge of pain.

She doesn’t answer, and Wilson has to steel himself before he can speak again. Deep breaths, all fingers present, the pain is subsiding. A throb, an annoying, hurtful one, but more manageable. He’s gotten very good at this.

Willow’s voice is soft, as if hypnotized. “It looks like a star.”

He opens his eyes again, the room is bathed in an intense, white light.

On the desk, (no, floating a few inches off the desk actually) was a very small, very bright ball of fire, intense heat coming off of it in waves, flames flickering outwards like a tiny sun. Overall, it was beautiful.

It’s also setting the desk on fire. Wilson can see it some of his paperwork beginning to smolder and curses phrases he hasn’t used in a long time. He tries to stand-

Willow’s weight pulls him back down, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

He tries to shove her off but she’s on the side with his injured hand, so it’s a feeble attempt that she easily bats off. “I’ve got to stop that thing before it burns the bloody house down!” He yells, hissing as she pushes his shoulder back, away from the flaming ball. It really does look like a star, though a weak one. Where it came from is a mystery. One second there was the yellow gem, the next…

That eleven year old had some explaining to do.

The brunette’s head darts wildly from the man on the ground to the desk, from Wilson back to the star again, a race of thoughts running through her head at a wild speed. Memories of a old building with old wood. Fire burning it to the ground. The flames flickering off the star, possibly lighting papers as that lighter did with the gasoline. The comfort of the flames as they surrounded her. The screams of a someone burning alive-

Willow blinks down at to the scientist, to the burnt skin through the gloves.

Fire needed oxygen to survive. She needed to kill it.

In one swift action, she lunges for the star. He yells something at her, her name maybe, but she doesn’t hear it. As quick as it erupted, her hands close around the ball of fire, isolating it from the outside world as sparks and flames trickle through her fingertips as the light that enveloped the room is now trapped within her grasp.

She tries to ignore the sadness she feels as it’s searing heat dims. It’s dying.

The papers on the table are scorched and hardly intact, the wooden finish on the desk bleached by the heat but no longer a hazard. The firestarter and scientist alike take ragged breathes, her eyes locked on her closed hands but she can hear him getting up from his spot. Slow, careful steps are taken towards her.

“I’ve got it.” Willow pants, though it comes out more of a panicked whisper. “Wilson, I’ve got it!”

She looks up. His goggles are missing, and he’s looking at her too. At her hands, watching the trapped fire slowly wither out from deprivation, the white glow fading into a red, then an orange flicker that could barely take shape until it’s hardly present in her palms.

Willow swallows. “I got it.”

He doesn’t flinch when she opens her hands to see it gone, and he doesn’t say anything of the flawless, unburned skin she adorned. Her heart races, and it’s just silence and the smell of burnt paper filling the room until he takes a step forward and she freezes in place.

A shaky fingers touche her open palm-as if making sure it was truly there-and Wilson releases a deep breathe. “This was not the scientific discovery I was expecting to make today.”


	6. Immunity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter actually was pretty difficult for me to write. There was lots of other things I wanted to add into it, and a couple of parts that I edited and straight up re-wrote because it didn't seem right to me. Anyways, feelings ensure.  
> (Also, some spelling/grammer errors may be a thing.)

In all honesty, he should have seen this coming.

There are somethings you can’t keep hidden forever, no matter how dense the surrounding audience may be, the truth gets out eventually. Sure, he make comments on her candle and fireplace obsession here and there, even noting her reluctance to run any errands on rainy days, but to assume one’s ability to do-whatever she just did-would be illogical. It just simply isn’t.

Yet, he stares at her clean hands whilst one of his own is blistering in heat, but he’s too dumbfounded to even acknowledge the pain. 

Willow looks insanely uncomfortable.

The silence between them breaks when she removes her hand from his view, wrapping her arms around herself and walking (pushing, more like it. It’s a odd, panicked motion.) quickly past him and practically running down the stairs.

“Wait!” Wilson shouts and reaches out to her, but she’s already gone, leaving him alone in his laboratory.

The firestarter bolts into her room, slamming the door behind her with lighting fast speed. This was a mistake, she thinks, clicking the lock into place. She can hear him walking upstairs, the sound of a drawer opening barley audible in the silent house. When she hears the old wooden attic door creak, Willow spins on her heel and scans the room.

She needed to leave. Now.

He’ll turn her into the police. Or accuse her of attempted arson on his own home. She’ll have no place here, no job, and she’s going right back to square one. It’s a sad thought, a panicked one that enters her mind as her heart races. She runs over to the bed and promptly throws off the sheets from the mattress, grabbing Bernie and holding him tightly.

“I’m sorry.” She gives him a tight squeeze. “It’s time to go.” She just needs her lighter, her bag, and whatever money she had left over and she could make her escape.

Bernie says nothing, as usual, but his presence in her hands is welcoming. Her entire mood prior to the star’s arrival has been extinguished and she honestly feels ready to cry but there’s no time for that, because her anxiety is pushing her to get out and run. Willow has run away from her problems before, and she can certainly do it again. Whether she really wants to or not. It’s better this way. Safer.

Hands are shifting through the contents of her desk, searching for a familiar little lighter when a tiny, soft knock comes off from her bedroom door. She freezes.

“Miss Willow?” Wilson’s voice echoes from behind the door. She’s partially surprised he didn’t try to open it. “Are you alright?”

She grits her teeth. “Go away!”

Her fingers return to the search, feeling around for her source of comfort. They find it, wrapping around the cylinder and bringing it to her chest. Bernie is squished against her when she flicks the flame to life, taking a deep breathe. No time for this now. She clicks it off. Her nerves are as frayed as ever.

Another knock her door, it sends a nervous shudder down her spine. “…I’d like to talk to you about what happened-”

“I don’t want to.” Her voice is hardly audible through the wood of the door but he can hear the slight crack it has. “Just go away. I’m getting my shit, okay? I’m getting all my stuff.” She shuffles to the floor, looking for her bag. It’s no where to be seen. She wishes her breathing would steady, it would be a lot easier to focus if it did.

There’s hesitation, then the scientist speaks again. “Your things?” He asks, though his voice is muffled at this distance. Willow is much too preoccupied to  are though and doesn’t respond, instead taking a moment to assess her options. She’ll have to leave many things here. Her candles, any clothes she has bought. There’s no where for her to take them and frankly she couldn’t care less if the scientist burned them after she was gone. She’d do it herself if she had the time.

How could she have been so careless? Everything was going fine, it was starting to become normal. It was nice, a roof over her head, an income, a normal life. She had all the fire she could have ever wanted, within reason. All she had to do was keep hush about it.

She needed one now, a good fire because the her chest was aching and her eyes were stinging with a wetness she absolutely hated, even with the teddy bear clutched against her and the tiny flickering flame spewing from her lighter is not enough to keep her steady.

Maybe she should have let that star burn. Let it rage, let it flare up and set this whole house ablaze and everything in it. She would have lived, and she would have loved it. The fire, the colors, the heat of it all. If it sparked a forest fire in the surrounding area that would be an even sweeter treat.

But she killed it. She had to, it threatened her home, her friend, her new life. But none of it mattered now because it was all going to be taken away from her anyway.

Now is not the time to be whining about it. She can cry and light leaves on fire later, now she just needed to figure out a way to leave without a certain scientist stopping her. Or having her arrested.

The lighter’s arm clicks back off once Willow realized she’s been hitting it without knowledge, spurring it’s flame to life in little bursts. Her hold on the item was shaky at best. She stands in her spot, taking deep breathes. The door is not a way she could leave through, not through him at least.

He’ll never see her again. Maybe that’s for the best.

She looks to the window, covered by the shabby curtains that owned this room before her. She will miss it. Still, setting Bernie on the mattress momentarily  to push her hands underneath the latch of the window seal. It creaks loudly, old wood bending to old nails as she lifts it looks outside.

It’s raining. She’s forgotten she’s on the second floor.

“Willow?” His voice reaches her this time, but she ignores him.

Below her is the backyard, to the ground is where his carrot garden is, hardly maintained but now being freshly watered thanks to the pouring rain. Willow freezes, mouth in a thin line and squints at the drop below. The rain was miserable, but survivable.  But jumping into wet mud and possibly spraining (or worse, breaking) something? Debatable.

Memories of cold nights on city streets, the sound of cars honking while she tried to sleep, the snow and sleet seeping through her shoes. She doesn’t know if she’s ready to go back to that. The brunette swallows the lump in her throat, and shuts the window seal.

A shuffle sounds from the other side of the door, and she remembers that Wilson is still there. “Are you leaving?” He asks. There’s a tone to his voice that she can dare say sounds like confusion and dismay. Not fear, or anger even.

“Most employees are required to give a two weeks notice before quitting, you know.” Wilson’s tone of voice is lighthearted, though she can see through his attempt at jest clear as day. “You could at least give me a reason.”

Pulling the curtains back over the window, Willow walks to the bedroom door, sits with her back to the wood and whispers. “Please don’t call the cops on me.”

A pause, then the sound of something leaning against the opposite’s door end tells her that he has mirrored her sitting position. “Why would I do that?” The scientist questions. She can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. “You just saved my house. And possibly my life, by default.” He states. “As far as I’m aware, that’s all perfectly legal.”

The pyro flickers her lighter to life, letting the fingers of her free hand move through the flame. “You know what you saw.” She mummers. “With the star.”

Silence for a moment. “I believe I do, Yes.” A shuffle, the smell of something tangy and a small hiss. “I certainly would not have believed it myself if I didn’t see it.” The sound of a bandage ripping reaches her ears. He must be using the first aid kit as he speaks. The image of his burnt skin is still fresh in her mind. Guilt washes over her. It wasn't her fault, she didn't do that, she knows. Still, he must be in pain.

Her eyes close and turns her head down, curling up her knees. “Listen, I…” She trails off, thinking for her wording. “I’m sorry. For bringing you into this. I’ll be out of your hair soon, just don’t tell anyone I was here. Or worked for you. Or anything, really. Just…” She blanks for a moment. “Sorry.”

“You’re apologizing?” Wilson prods. “What for?”

For lying. Not being honest. Omitting the truth. What other sort of wording could she use that didn’t sound so harsh? “For pulling you into this mess.” That will work, she guessed.

The door creaks. “Miss Willow, I can assure you with absolute certainty that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The brunette curls her hand around the fire, furrowing her brows. “What?”

“I mean,” Wilson starts, she can hear him adjust to seat more comfortably. “I saw what you did with the star, yes. Bare hands holding a bright consenced ball of fire? Unbelievable, but I saw you do it.I feel slightly disappointed in myself, truly. Not that I didn’t see this coming, no. This wasn’t something I expected to discover today, but that fact is it’s an extraordinary thing, you see.” His manner of speaking sounds like he's lost in thought. “What you’ve done.”

Her anxiety is joined momentarily by her confusion. “...You’re not making any sense. I don’t understand-”

“Neither do I!” He interrupts in an outburst. “To be frank with you, I have no idea what I witnessed you do. If someone would have told me about it before I would have chalked it up to a cheap magic trick.” He’s speaking in a fashion that’s alike to those morning rambles about latest research he’s fond over. “You have an impossible trait, so it appears.”

Willow knows he can’t see her, but she’s shaking her head regardless. “Impossible. Sure, let’s call it that.” Her voice is low and shaky. The snark in her attitude is still trying to hold out, though. “If that’s how you want to view it.”

“And you don’t view it as such?” His voice is closer; he’s leaning against the door with her. Her fingers twitch as the lighter’s fire dies, taking a few hits and spark to bring it back to life again. She can feel her very mind sway with it’s presence and absence alone. “I don’t know what to view it as. It’s just always been a thing for me.”

The scientist chimes a quick response, the sound of his fingers tapping against the wood. “You still haven’t answered my question. Are you alright?”

The flame dies again, and Willow snaps the lighter shut. “What do you think?”

“Well, you’ve locked yourself in your room spewing apologies, gathering all of your belongings in a hurry and frankly asking me to forget who you are and deny of ever knowing you.” His reply is blunt. “So no, I don’t think you’re alright. But it’s polite to ask.”

To his words, the firestarter glances to the window again. The sound of rain hitting the glass was still evident, but now no light was shining through the curtains, signaling the arrival of evening. The dark of outside sends a shudder up her spine and she lights the lighter once more.

The scientist has taken her silence for thought. “Are you still planning to leave?”

Nerves spur up and her face twists in a conflicted expression he can’t see. Her arms wrap around herself again, inhaling a deep breath to calm down. It doesn’t really work. “Yeah.”

“I see.” A pause, “Why?”

The answer she’s been rehearsing in her head suddenly turns up blank. “…Aren’t you going to kick me out?”

Wilson makes baffled noise. “No, I’m not. I’m not quite sure how you’ve come to the conclusion that I would be.”

While it should have been a welcoming fact, it only puts her on edge even more. This was not how normal people reacted to things such as this. “So you’re not going to rat me out?” She doesn't mean too, but it comes off more hostile than she intended. “No questions? No fear of me setting your house on fire?”

“You prevented that, actually.”

That same, non-caring, averting attitude he held when he first hired her. She recognizes it immediately, and it makes her a little angry for some reason. Moody, she doesn’t know why. This feels unfair. This understanding feels undeserving.

“May I come in, now?” He asks permission, interrupting her train of thought. Her fingers find one of her pigtails and pulls at the stray strands of hair in a nervous manner. “Why should I let you?”

“No reason, really.” He hums, “I’d just like to see what you’re doing with your lighter there.”

Willow freezes, the fingers curled around the said object loosening in surprise. She catches it last second and sends a glare towards the inexpressive door side.

He must have heard her fumble with it, because his next expression is one of noting. “So I was right. You using it now, aren’t you?” She can’t see it, but there’s a soft, reassuring smile on his face he’s put on instinctively. “I’m not going to take it from you, if that what you’re worried about.”

It’s not the only thing she’s worried about, but she’ll hold him to those words. She scoots a little bit away from the door frame, creating some distance from him and her whilst still sitting on the floor. The lighter remains unlit for the time being (despite the urge to set the very wooden floor ablaze itself.)

He senses her hesitation, the silence falling between leaving only the sound of a the rain’s downpour on the roof of his home. “How about we make a deal then?” He offers, taking on a light tone. “I’ll do what you ask and never speak of this to anyone. You won’t have to worry about you’re secret getting out through me.”

The brunette scrunches up her nose and frown to herself. “…What’s the catch?”

“Two conditions.” Wilson starts.

“Which are?”

“I’d like to see you touch the fire again.” He says. “For science.”

Willow knew he was going to ask for an explanation, she knew this, she practically owed him one. But a demonstration? Not exactly what she was prepared to hear. It was absurd, a request only someone mad enough would make. Perhaps there were truth to those rumors. “And the second one?”

“We’ll get to that.”

She hesitates, glancing from her hands to the door. To the window across the room and the rain spiraling down the glass. The scientist waits patiently for her answer, though the firestarter cannot bring herself to speak because her eyes are still wet, her stomach churns with anxiety and she cannot stop thinking about how much easier everything would be if she could just run away.

The guilt settles in, and she finds herself more compliant. “You won’t tell a soul?”

A shuffle, the sound of wood creaking as he moved and Willow’s eyes flicker down to the bottom of the door’s space. A pinky finger is sticking out from underneath it. “Gentleman’s honor.” He says.

For a moment, (and only a single, fleeting sparse moment.) Willow feels a laugh bubble up through the cry she’s been holding back for the past half hour. It doesn’t break through, but it alleviate a bit of her nervousness.

“Okay.” She reaches over and lightly taps the man’s pinky finger with her own. “Deal.”

The promise is sealed, and the pinky finger disappears under the space again. “Very good then.”

She’s about to stand and unlock the door when the knob begins to twist and click on it’s own. The pyro falters, rising to her feet and taking a step backwards as the door swings open, (slowly, calmly as if not to frighten her though it’s a bit late for that.) and a sheepish looking Wilson enters the room.

“That door was locked.” She states.

The scientist runs a newly bandaged hand through his hair, giving a tiny shrug and awkward look. “I have keys to all the rooms in the household.”

“So, you could have just barged in at any time?”

“That would have been rude.” He knows the value of personal space during a difficult time. 

They stare for a moment, Willow lets out a deep breathe something akin to an emotionless laugh and plops down on her bed, cradling her face in her hands. The lighter dangles from her finger and Wilson watches it with a wary view as he approaches.

She’s half expectin ghim to take the lighter out of fear, even though he said he wouldn’t (people lie all the time. She’s learned from the best of them.) but instead feels the mattress sink to her side and looks through the spaces between her fingers  to peek at him. Wilson awkwardly smiles at her, and she slinks her gaze back behind the shield of her hands. He’s sitting a respectful distance away, but the feelings of being cornered linger.

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t embarrassed. Not the flush, cute kind of embarrassed either. The kind that brings tears to your eyes and spins shame into your chest. Look at him, so calm and collected while she was a mess. (She misses the way he grips his injured hand when she flips the lighter out.)

Willow hesitates, running the thumb over the switch before clicking the flame to life. It wavers between them, untouched and small, but it’s enough to make her take a deep breathe to ease the headache beginning to start.

She glances to Wilson out of the corner of her eye, and finds his own sharp stare locked onto hers. It’s darts away, meeting the lighter instead. Still, the reassuring smile he holds doesn’t shift, and she notes that his attempt for consolation is rusty at best.

His hands are settled down into his lap, one of them wrapped in bandages finely. It looked like a better job than she would have done. Of course, the man did say that he practiced medicine at one point another. “…How’s your hand?” She diverts the attention away. “You got burned pretty badly back there.”

Wilson flexes the fingers of his injured hand and restrains a hiss. Better to be in pain though, as long as the nerves were undamaged there would be no long lasting consequences. The medicine was also working quite well.

“First-to-second degree burns. Thankfully the gloves prevented anything worse than that.” He answers her. Willow’s eye squint when she realizes she doesn’t exactly know what those terms mean. “It will heal, in time. Maybe a week or two, won’t leave a scar, I believe.” He lowers his hand and looks to her. “How about you?”

The scientist watches her avoid eye contact and fiddle with her lighter. “I thought it was obvious. I’m not burned.”

“I wasn’t talking about that.” He shifts his body so it’s facing her direction fully. With the white lab coat and concerned facial expression, it’s very easy for Willow to imagine him with a stethoscope and clipboard. It would suit him.

When the realization of his words comes to her, she brings the lighter and it’s open flame to the center of her hand. Wilson stiffens on the bed beside her. She can feel his hesitance, his disbelief. Her hand isn’t in the fire, not quite. But it’s very close, close enough that she should have felt the sting of the heat.

She owed him an explanation, she guesses. He’s not accusing her of devilry or other heinous crimes just yet. Sure, the whole concern for her well being alone could be an elaborate ruse to get her to drop her guard. (He would not be the first to try.)

But something feels different here. Not safe, no. Her anxiety wasn’t going to allow that luxury. But a mix of curiosity and vulnerability. She doesn’t know which feeling she dislikes more.

Willow turns to the scientist, who is attentive as ever, and braces herself. “Just look.”

She lets her fingers drop into the lighters flame and holds them there, the fire spreading up her fingertips and alighting her skin with a array of colors, dancing as she moves them.

Wilson’s silence is deafening, and her heart skips. Briefly, she wonders, if this is what it felt like to have his laboratory exposed to her.

“Wow.” His voice is low and mixed with awe and something else she can’t tell. “That’s…That is something. Impossible.”

Willow swallows and goes to remove her hand but freezes when Wilson reaches out to it. He stops for a second, sending her a wide-eyed look. “May I?”

She doesn’t quite know what he’s talking about. “…Yes?”

The scientist gently takes her wrist, holding it steady with her fingers still in the flame. Her skin is untarnished, undamaged and decorated with little sparks of embers. The expression of concern and uncertainty on his face has morphed into something much more child-like.

“Immunity to fire.” He grins, running a thumb over her skin. “Absolutely brilliant.”

Willow stares at him.

He’s too much in his own observant wonder to even notice. “This doesn’t hurt you. Not at all?” He asks but there’s a laugh in his voice, “Do you have any idea how incredible this is? Human skin, completely resistant to fire? To one of the most destructive elements on this planet?” The scientist leans in closer, drawn in by the sight. It was beautiful, the science of it all.

A giddy, amazing feel riles up in him so quickly he almost shakes Willow off the bed when he places his hands around her shoulders, a splitting smile on his face. “Immunity to fire! You, my dear, are a incredibility to science! To the world! You’ve tamed and become one with the very existent of extreme heat itself!” He laughs with a bubbly, happy tone. “Brilliant! Just brilliant!”

The fingers still resting in the flame curl back around the lighter. Wilson is quite animated, and if one did not know any better he would look akin to a child finding a rare discovery, restless and giddy and overall filled to the brim with utter existent.

His hands leave her shoulders and travel back down to her hands, grasping them tightly. Immunity to fire? The human race can adapt and evolve to become as such?. "An incredible feat of genetics, evolution at it’s finest peak in history! You’re some sort of advanced human, aren't you?” He’s rambling in his own world now, holding her hands delicately with a sense of wonder. He double checks. No scales, no leathery skin, just the soft, skin of her fingers still in his own. They’re no longer alight, the lighter has dropped to the mattress.

“This is one of the finest discoveries for Science I’ve ever laid eyes on. A wonderful, beautiful thing, truly. Hell, we started out as bloody cavemen and spend centuries studying and utilizing fire and you’ve gone and be born immune to it!” He plays with her hands as he laughs, lacing one with his own uninjured one. “Why don’t you tell anyone about this? This is amazing-!”

He looks up to her face and his smile immediately drops. "Oh"

Willow stares back at him in silence, wide eyes and tears running down her face. His assistant is crying.

Oh, dear.

Suddenly, the senses of a reasonable man come back to the scientist and he removes himself from her hands, letting them drop to her lap and scooting back a foot away, enough to give her some proper space. Curse him and his over-reactive interest, that behavior just wasn’t gentlemanly at all. Immunity to fire or not, one needed to be mannerable about it.

Willow’s hands are shaking now that they’re no longer held in place, her face stuck in a expression of both shock and something else that Wilson can’t read, something that brings tears to her eyes. He can’t stop himself from watching it run down her face until she quickly brings her hands up to her own gaze. She stares at them, then to the scientist, then back to her hands before her mouth trembles and promptly buries her face away.

It was at this moment, Wilson realizes, that his current situation consisted of sitting in his (Fireproof, apparently.) assistant’s bedroom, with the woman crying softly across from him and having no experience what so ever in order to console her.

He had a feeling that Science can’t help him out on this one.

Was it something he said? Didn’t say? Maybe it was his outlandish behavior, it’s certainly gotten him into some trouble before. The assistant herself is actually very quiet in her tears as the scientist scans the room for something-anything, really-that could save the situation.

It’s a futile attempt, at first. There’s nothing in here except candles burned to down the end of the wick and a mess from what he assumes is from her previous searching. He hears little soft mummers, Willow is saying something but he can't quite catch onto the dialogue because her voice is muffled and riddled with strain. He swivels around in panic before something particular catches his eye.

_Boop._

Willow stops, blinking the wetness from her eyes (She hated it, so much. The feeling of it was gross and she wished she could just burn it away.) and rubs the icky feeling out of her face. When she looks up, it is not Wilson’s astonished, nor panicked face that greets her. It’s Bernie's.

The hands that hold the teddy bear bring it’s arm down to lightly tap her nose. “I don’t really know how to make you feel better…” A little chuckle sounds behind the stuffed animal. Wilson makes sure the bear hides his face. “But I thought that maybe this gentleman here might.”

Red, puffy eyes lock onto the bear as the dark haired man sits in wait. The firestarter brings her hands up, settling her hands over the scientist's (He accidentally squeezes the bear in soft surprise, mind you his hand is still a bit tender.) and brings it down. He gulps when his faces comes into view. His hair looks wild, either from his bout of wonder or embarrassment she can’t tell.

With a snotty nose and wet cheeks, Willow smiles and bouts out a laugh. “You’re so stupid!” She hiccups. It’s soft, croaky, and he can hear the sob in her throat. But it doesn’t sound sad. Her eyes are turned upwards, she's a bit aloof, but less  than before. The symptoms don't match up.“You…You are such a silly, silly scientist.”

It appears that these tears are not ones of sadness or grief, but of relief.  

Wilson takes a deep breathe and feels the tension seep from his body. Thank goodness. “I am not silly. I’m very smart-”

He doesn’t get to finish the rest of his protest because the firestarter has pulled the bear, (and him, by default) closer to her chest, clutching it for dear life as she let out tears of what now Wilson could safely assumed to be joy. Or relief. He’s not sure, but as long as it wasn’t something worse.

Still, he freezes up and mumbles something under his breath in embarrassment when he realizes that the brunette is wrapped around his arms with the teddy in tow, and this was certainly a position he was not excepting to end up in.

He debates on slinking out, or letting her remain in place before she speaks again. “You’re first person who’s ever said…any of that, really.” She catches her breath, her voice is raspy with overuse. “You're sorta the only person who knows about it now. Everyone else thought I’m just really fucking weird.”

He silently tsk’s inside in mind for her cursing but also tilts his head at her in confusion. “That’s whats all this about, then?” He shakes his head. “You’re speaking to a scientist living in the woods for science’s sake. I’d think by now that you’d know that I’m not exactly conventional myself.” The tone is lighthearted, and it feels good to ease back into that mood.

Willow snorts, her nose is still wet from her crying. “It’s still not normal. People don’t like that.”

The man hums to himself, thinking. Adjusting himself to be more comfortably, he removes his arms from her person, letting her keep the stuffed animal and allowing himself to sit close to her. She seems to falter, reluctant at first, (common in patients who are recovering from anxiety attacks, he remembers) but settles for the comfort of having him sit close enough that their shoulders are touching, clutching the bear closer.

Physical contact still feels alien. Holding her hands were different (soft, unburnt hands) within his excitement but friendships demand this sort of thing, don’t they? Physical contact, all this touching, the routine of it; he'd dare say it's starting to become normal for him. Not quite sure if that's good or bad.

“Do you remember what I said before? When you first applied for this job?” He questions her. The raised brow she dawns is enough of an answer for him. “Some people, small minded people can be scared of what they don’t know. And yes, you’re right-” He makes a mild gesture towards the firestarter to which she squints at him for. “It’s not normal. Not at all, perceptively unheard of.”

When her face falls in the slightest and opens her mouth to retort, he stops her. “All things start out that way, though. We’re only human, and most humans are afraid of the unknown, rightfully. so.” There’s a hint of pride in his tone. “A scientist, such as myself, seek out answers for these sort of things-”

Willow interrupts him, her mouth is tugged upwards. “I think I know where you’re going with this one.”

"Do you now?" He laughs, "Then you should be aware that I'm not afraid, then."

The woman gazes down to Bernie, cuddling it close. The fur smelled of ash and rubble, even after years of use the smell never changed. She wondered if Wilson himself noticed it, or didn’t pay any mind to it. She wasn’t going to be embarrassed of the stuffed animal and it didn’t appear like he was going to give her any grief over having one either.

“So you’re okay with all this?” She asks him over the teddy bear’s head. “It doesn’t freak you out, or whatever? The whole fire-immunity thing?”

The man gives a little nod of the head. “Of course not. Science has an explanation for everything, in time.”

Willow simply stares at him for a moment, uttering something and turning away. There’s no clue to her actually why she is the way that she is, but if science had some sort of half-assed explanation for it then she’d gladly like to hear it. She doubt it, though. “What about the second part of that deal?”

The man shuffles in his spot for a moment. “I would like to ask if you’d reconsider your leave of employment.” He thinks for a moment. “Not leaving, is what I mean. I’d ask for you to stay.”

She blinks at him. “Why?”

“…Why not?” He has a better answer than that, the wording for it isn't forming correctly in his mind and his pride is already on the line here.

At first he thinks shes going to wave him off and state that she’s made up her mind and will be out by early morning (or earlier than that, given her previous behavior) but she only shrugs and looks to the lighter forgotten on the mattress. She picks it up with a caring gentleness that Wilson takes with his own equipment, he notes, and runs a thumb over the golden arm.

“Sure, it’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to go.” She flicks the flame to life, and lets her thumb sit in it. When she turns to him, Wilson is watching with interest. “I’ll stay here.”

He breaks from his stare and snaps his fingers. “Great! You’re re-hired!”

The firestarter sticks out her tongue. “Very funny.”

A moment passes, they sit in comfortable silence. She lets him watch in awe as she spindles the flames between her finger tips until it flares up and covers her hand completely, only being careful enough to pull back once it reaches it her wrist and allows the flames to concede. (Can’t risk setting the house on fire once more. There was enough of that already today.)

“You’re not going to tell me where you’ve from, are you?” Wilson breaks the silence. “And all that talk about the police and such?”

She clicks her lighter closed and gives him a look. “Nah. Don’t really feel like it.”

Disappointment flashes across his face but he’s quick to brush it off, taking a deep breathe and rising from the bed, (the mattress rises up from the lack of weight and it briefly startles Willow just how empty the space next to her feels) He looks down to her. “I suppose that’s fair. It’s been an eventful day, for the two of us.”

Should he be worried about what she's hiding? Probably, but he'd be a hypocrite if he pried, and an insensitive one at that. The poor girl has already had a hard time as it is. Everyone has secrets, as the saying goes. And there will always be another day, another time for more answers. (Still, 'It's not like I've got anywhere else to go', she said. He wonders just why that is.)

Even with still-puffy eyes, there’s a smile on her face as she wiggles the bear’s arms at him. The scientist feels mocked for some reason. “I don’t suppose you feel up to helping me clean up the mess that ‘star’ did to my laboratory?”

She makes a noise that sounds like a mix of a sniffle and snort. “Oh, do i finally get a _real_ invite into the oh-so-mystical lab?”

“It’s not ‘mystical’, it’s scientific. And yes, consider you’re position as my assistant you’re official pass to my laboratory.” He sets his injured hand to his side and holds out his other for her to take. “Just knock before you enter, next time.”

She takes his hand and rises from the bed, letting him go to bring the bear up into his line of sight. “Cool. Bernie gets to see the lab too.”

“Is that his name?” He finds it very fitting. “Fine, but he’s not allowed near the test tubes.”

“But you let ME near the test tubes.”

“On the contrary, I trust you not to knock over all my equipment.” Mostly, not so sure about setting it all ablaze but that will just have to be delt with whenever the time comes. Wilson points an mocking finger of accusation at Bernie. “I have no memory of hiring this bear.”

Willow giggles. The wet streaks on her cheeks are almost nearly dry now. “Tough luck, he comes with the full package.”

The scientist merely sighs and dusts off his lab coat. “’Full package’ indeed. Come, let’s go see what we can salvage from that gem. I’d like to conduct some more tests with it.”

The anxiety is gone, replaced with a happier feeling. Relief or excitement, or a mix of the two. A strange turn of events, not one that she expected but it's nice. She hopes it lasts. “Do I actually get to help this time?”

He fixes a loose piece of bandage on his hand, he gives her a grin that would surely fit the role of a mad scientist indeed. “With your talent, I’d love it if you did.”


	7. A Party Dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Willow steals Wilson's money (but not really), and there's female friendship bonding time. 
> 
> (if you find grammer/spelling errors in here, just ignore it with your magnificent brain. let me die in dignity)

He notices that Willow’s behavior changes after the star. Not drastically, not dramatically so but subtlety.

She’s more open about her ‘talent’. (He doesn’t know what else to describe it as, and calling it a ‘evolutionary accomplishment’ made her give him a weird look) When they’re busy researching-or him, really, she just kinda hangs out whenever he does- she’ll mention being board and wanting a fire. There should be some candles in his lab, they were out of firewood, how she could see little pictures in the scorch marks on the floor.

Little comments, she doesn’t emphasize them, but he notices she likes to put her opinion out on things easier than she would before. It’s fascinating what she can do, truly.

It’s not apparent the first day afterwards, or even the second, but Willow slowly allows herself to touch fires when he’s around. Not hiding the ability is strange for her, it’s empowering yet followed by a sense of vulnerability she can’t pinpoint.

She knows it’s not just a change for her, but for the scientist as well. That’s why she doesn’t hold it against him when he walks into the living room one night and lets out a very (unmanly) scream at the sight of his assistant sitting inside the fireplace. He can be very forgetful, she remembers the incidents. Though, his expression makes her laugh and Wilson timidly asks her not to make fun of him.

It’s becoming a normality, she doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing but finds herself not paying attention when she should. Like in the morning, when she turns the gas stove on and lays on hand down on the flame and the other on her hip when she turns to talk to him and finds him sitting at the kitchen table half-listening. He’s got half a pancake stuffed in his mouth and is looking at her with a fascination she can’t say she’s used to. It’s flattering, almost. Maybe a little bit embarrassing.

All in all, it’s starting to feel like home. Or whatever a home should feel like.

Willow breaks from her musings and fiddles withe the set of beakers and burners she has in her arms, dumping them all on a table and sweeping off any of the left of residue from the last experiment. A male voice sounds from behind her, noticeably annoyed. “When I put you in charge of the those, I didn’t mean you could just plop them down so recklessly. Those things can bust very easily, you know.”

She turns to him to look at him with a smile. “Immunity to fire, remember? I’m like, totally fine if one of these exploded or something.”

“Unless you’re also immune to glass and extremely dangerous chemicals, I would beg to differ.” He wags a gloved finger at her. “Put those away. We’re not using those today.” Truly, he didn’t want to have any sort of fire burning in his lab today. His hand was still tender and seeing someone else utilize flick a lighter around inside him home can get a little unnerving at times.

The woman rolls her eyes, but shoves all the equipment into the a drawer anyways. It clatters to a pile at the bottom of the wood and she hears Wilson groan at the sound but no other complain. It was fun to annoy him sometimes.  “Okay, no chemicals today.” She scans him over. His lab coat was unbuttoned and his gloves were freshly sanitized. “What exactly ARE we doing, then?”

Wilson gestures her over to him, holding up something small and metallic. “Come see for yourself.” She approaches him, eyes going wide at what lay across a metal platform. He’s holding a untamed grin when she raises a brow. “THIS is what you were up doing all night?” She asks. “What is it?”

There’s a series of wires and cords hooked up to a metal chassis, a little door-like opening up to reveal a series of gears and other works inside. There’s a small rectangular section piece secured in the middle, where a heart would be. It looks kinda like a lock box.

Willow squints at the limbs attached to it, staring at the metal piece attached to what could pass as a neck. The metal looks mold-able. It looks like a face.

“My biggest project to date.” Wilson’s smile is nearly mad. She doesn’t say that though, he hates that phrase. “I’m close to finishing it, but I’m missing an important piece.”

She tilts her head. “Which is?” She questions. Mindlessly she reaches out and touches the ‘hand’ of the experiment. It looks human-like, down to the joints and shape of the body. (Though a bit more square than anything) If it weren’t for the odd orange color paint she’d say it’d look just like a doll.

Wilson’s mouth thins into a line. “Not sure, actually. Maxwell is giving it to me in a few days.”

The firestarter debates on either asking where did Maxwell come into the picture or if she should tease him about how his face wrinkles up at the name but stops short when the scientist drops the screwdriver he was holding, claps his hands together and turns to her with a sudden urgency. “I almost forgot! Do you have a party dress?”

He watches her blink in confusion. “Um, no?” She had her skirts, some sweaters and a couple shirts. An extra apron Wilson insisted she get and a couple pair of new shoes but no, she did not own a dress. Those things can be expensive. “Why?”

Wilson frowns and buttons up his lab coat. The goggles sit on the far end of the desk and he grabs them, strapping them to his head. “You’ll need one. The two of us are going to a gala.” He starts. He hasn’t dropped the goggles over his eyes yet, so he can see the scrutiny in her stare clear as day.

She stops her poking at the figure and deadpans at him. “A gala?”

“Yes.”

“…Why?”

He digs through his inner vest pockets, fumbling with the fabric until he brings something out for her to see. A tiny piece of paper is pinched between his fingers. She recognizes it as the same paper Maxwell gave to him during lunch sometime ago.

“It’s supposed to be one of his ‘magic shows’-” he air quotes at the words, tossing the paper down. “-some influential figures are supposed to be there, I’m told. Publishers and the like.” No matter what influence someone had, there was always someone foolish enough to fall for something as childish as ‘magic’.

Willow crinkles her face up, playing with the fingers of the hand on the table in thought. She misses the scientist’s glare sent to the action. Sounds like a whole bunch of old money, snobby rich folk. Not exactly her kind of crowd. They were the best to swindle cash from when she was younger, though. (“Oh, you poor thing, out here all on your own. Here, take this and go get something warm to eat.”) …when they weren’t shooing her away from their busy street corners and what not.

Wilson coughs, and she notes the pause in conversation. “I thought you hated his magic shows.” She continues.

“Oh, I do. The fact that it’s a party moreover is even worse.” His voice is filled with a polite sneer, if such a thing existed. “Unfortunately, I can’t afford to pass up any opportunity to show people what I’m capable of doing here. Anyone not from the surrounding area is fair game.”

So really, anyone who doens’t already think he’s a whackjob. He takes one of the wires hooked to the body’s (Should it even be called that? It certainly looked like one.) mid-section and rips it out. Willow flinches at the sight. It looks like it would hurt.

Still, she puts a hand on her hip and sighs. “Science stuff. Sounds boring and nerdy.” She grins. Wilson shoots her a glare and she winks at him. “I’m joking. Why do I even need to be there, though? Sounds like more of a you-thing.”

The scientist pauses mid-replacement of the wire. “I’d rather not go alone. I’d appreciate your company.” He flips his goggles down and focuses on aligning the connectors together. “As a friend.”

Willow sighs and smiles. “Oh, no. You used the ‘friend-card’. Guess that means I HAVE to go, don’t I?” She jests. Wilson’s mouth tugs into a lop-sided smile. “Afraid so.”

She drops the metal hand and thinks for a minute. The woman looks out the window; early afternoon, still some time to run into town and take care of that ‘dress’ she needed to get before she forgot about it. She had some chores she needed to take care of first, but…she could totally stall those a little bit longer. “So…does this mean I get my paycheck early?”

The goggles are covering a good protion of his face but she can feel him glint at her in amusement. “I suppose, since it’s a favor.” He digs through those vest pockets again, and pulls out a wallet. He shifts through a few bills, but his gloves are making it increasenly more difficult to navigate through the leather and he ends up just pushing it in her direction. “Here. Only get what you need, please.” He’s much too busy to write up her actual payment. He’ll figure that out later, for now; the robot needs more work.

Willow looks flabbergasted. “Seriously? You’re just like, GIVING me all your money?!”

“Not all of it-”

He does finish because she’s snatches the wallet from his hands, (half of him finds it funny, the other half is worried for his financial sake) and is already making her way towards the door. “I’m going to spend ALL of it.”

“I trust you not to.” He waves her off. That’s not actually all the cash he has, but she doesn’t need to know that. Her reaction is interesting. “Could you pick me up a razor while you’re out, please? I’ve seem to misplaced mine.”

She’s too busy mocking him from the distance to listen. “What would you do if I just took this and ran off, huh?” She waves it at him, a playful grin on her face. Clearly, the threat is non-existent. “What if I just stole all your stuff?!”

“And go where, exactly?” Wilson swivels in his chair, light glints off the goggles and a grin stretches across his face. It looks only touch crazy. “I know where you live.”

He laughs as she sticks her tongue out at him and bolts down the stairs, footsteps echoing downstairs and the sound of the front door opening and closing. The room falls silent, but there’s still a hint of mirth in his chest when she’s long gone. She makes some funny faces, he thinks, screwing in the last plate piece to one of the robot’s legs.

* * *

Willow is decidedly lost. Even though she’s been here many times before, either by herself or with Wilson himself, she has found herself completely lost as to where she could find any sort of fancy clothing establishment, or hell, even a tailor around.

Grocery store? Down the road to the left, no problem. Tools, wires, and glue material? That can be ordered and picked up from the post office or Wilson sends her directly to the factories directly to pick up scraps and other useless materials he’s so fond of hording. What about her new clothes, shoes and skirts and all that jazz? Candles, even. There’s a cute little department store near here that sells all sorts of red and blacks she likes. Cheap too, but nothing fancy. Not for a party.

Willow curls her coat around her tighter, walking through the city streets and giving each window she passes a quick look-over. She needed to find something, comfortable preferable. And cheap. She was just joking when she said she’d spend all of his cash. Hopefully he didn’t take her seriously.

She was really going to gala, huh? She’s really moved that higher on up in the world, to find herself going to something she’s only seen women adorned in pearl and men with expensive dime pipes attending. Imagine that, she’d be dining and dancing (at least, that what she thinks what goes on in those things.) with the same type of people that spat at her on the streets all those years ago. It feels weird. Feels wrong.

…What was she even going to do when she got there? How to act? Who to talk to? She didn’t even know anything about the dress code aside from the fact that it’s supposed to be this fancy-smancy theme that rich people just love to flaunt. What was Wilson going to wear? Maybe she should have asked him to come with her-

A newsstand catches her eye, a sole man behind it. He doesn’t notice her when she approaches because he’s too deep in a conversation with another customer; Willow can hear some flirty remarks and gossip echoing from their conversation but she doesn’t pay any attention to that.

Instead, a paper on the front row does. The headliner is about some new celebrity, other stuff she doesn’t care about. But she doesn’t look at that ink, no, her eyes widen at the smaller print on the side, mixed in with other big-story articles not dramatic enough for the headliner but important enough to land on the first page.

Willow picks up the paper and reads the sentence. **Arsonist still on the run**.

Oh, god. It’s for her.

There’s no picture, and the article underneath is scarce at best but it’s there. They’re still looking for her. Her description is vague, (How many brunette haired women with average height do they think exists?) so she’s safe. But she’s not really, because she’s run so far, SO far away and they’re still looking for her. Still blaming her. She didn’t try to kill that woman, she didn’t.

They’re going to find her. Her hands are shaking, clutching the paper with a grip that turns her knuckles white. The world around her seems to silence, the words sticking out at her in bold, black ink. They’re still looking for her, after all this time. She didn’t do it. They’ll take her. They’ll get her. They’ll accuse her of being a _Witch_ and burning that woman and destroy the life she’s worked so hard for and get Wilson in trouble and take her away and she’ll never-

“Miss Willow!” A feminine, chipper voice breaks through.

Willow fumbles with the paper, shoving it back onto the rack with alarming speed (the paper-man stares at her sudden notion of her appearance and makes a remark on her rudeness) before turning around with lighting speed.

She recognizes the face instantly. “C-Charlie??”

Charlie waves at her from across the street, waiting until cars has passed to run up to her, a wide smile on her face. The brunette takes these few seconds to compose herself, willing her nerves to calm. Her lighter presses against her chest in her coat pocket. Can’t do that now. She’s in public.

“What a treat, running into you out here! And without Mr. Higgsbury, I see.” Charlie greets her, radiating warmth. For some reason, it makes Willow feel better. Slightly, though. She makes sure to stand between the newspaper booth and the woman. “Yeah!, I’m, uh…just out for an errand. You know?” She tries to laugh. It comes out strained. “What about you?”

The dark haired woman’s brows twitch at her reaction but she says nothing, only standing with her hands clasps and a kind smile. “Maxwell’s getting ready for the show in a few days, so I’m taking the day off.” She says. “It’s a much needed break, I’m afraid. He can be so demanding at times, I think I’m entitled to a little time out on the town.”

Willow lets the tension she didn’t know she was holding in out with a deep breath. “Ha. Funny, Wilson was just talking about that thing.” She steps away from the booth and gestures for Charlie to walk with her (who follows with a friendly step) she doesn’t exactly know where she’s going, but anywhere away from that paper booth would be great. “The gala, I mean. Said I needed a dress or something to wear there.”

Charlie’s face immediately brightens. “You’re going?” When the brunette nods, the other woman claps her hands together and makes a squeal of joy. “That’s wonderful, really. How did you do it?”

Willow raises a brow. “How did I do what?”

“How did you manage to convince Mr. Higgsbury? Last I checked, the man was a staunch disbeliever.” She adds on.

“Oh, I didn’t do anything.” The firestarter looks around, they seemed to be in some sort of gathering square now. Little shops and stores dotted the sidelines. “He just kinda made the decision for himself. Something about ‘meeting influential people’ or whatever.”

Charlie looks slightly disappointed, but her smile doesn’t fall. Instead, she lets a knowing sigh. “Well, that something, I suppose. I do hope you enjoy the show, though. Willow. We’ve worked really hard on it.”

Willow hums and nods her head, briefly looking around. No one’s looking at her, looking at them really but she can’t shake the feeling of all eyes on her. Cornered, trapped. She’s fine, she tells herself. There’s a friend here. She’s safe. “Yeah…what do you guys do, anyways?” She steers the conversation. She’s not all that interested to be honest, but something to talk about would be nice. “In the magic show, I mean. How exactly does all that work?”

Charlie just shakes her head. “Telling you how it works would take the whole magic surprise out of it.”

The firestarter tilts her head. “So it really is just tricks, then?”

The woman pauses. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. Maxwell doesn’t even tell me how he does some of the things he does. It’s very impressive though, I tell you. We almost killed someone once.”

Willow gawks at her and Charlie giggles before she continues. “Not like that! I’m teasing you. We had a old man attend one of our shows once. He had a heart attack half-way through. Scared the hell out of him, I think.” She laughs a soft laugh. “One of our best shows yet. He’s fine now. Probably.”

They stop walking, both women standing at the corner of the street now. Car horns brazened as she took in her attire; red coat, red hat, just like when she first met her. “Think that will happen to Wilson?” She offers, a touch of a grin on her face. Charlie grins at her. “Well, I certainly hope not. But you never know.”

They share a giggle. The air is calmer. Willow feels better. “So,” The red-clad woman turns to face her fully, tilting her head. “Have you found the dress you’re going to wear? I’d love to see it. Though, I do hope Mr. Higgsbury told you of the color theme we’re all required to keep to.”

The firestarter runs a hand through one of her pigtails, scanning the array of shops. “No, actually, he didn’t.” She answers. “And I haven’t found anything yet. Don’t really know where I can get one.”

Charlie’s mouth forms an ‘o’. “Right! I forgot you were relatively new in town, aren’t you?”

The firestarter shrugs. “I guess? I don’t really shop for those kind of things.”

“Mind if I give you a tour then?”

Willow stares at Charlie with interest. As much as she’d like to go home, shove herself in the fire pit and sit there in the raging flames until Wilson demands she goes to bed, she needed to get a dress today. Preferably as soon as possible so she didn’t have to show her face in public for much longer. “Sure, why not?”

Her answer brings joy to the other woman’s face, who laces her arm with her own and begins to lead her off into a direction Willow hasn’t traveled down yet.  “There’s a place down here I think you’ll like.” She smiles. It’s full of warmth and ease. The pryo almost feels bad making her do this.

Charlie leads her to a store Willow’s passed a few times but never paid any real attention to because of it’s lavish decorating. It look snobby, kinda over-done and dolled up but expensive looking. Not really her style. Yet, the dark haired woman has pulled her inside and is already pointing out dresses on the racks, flashy and looks more akin to what a flapper would wear than what Willow would.

“Black, with red accent.” Charlie tells her. “That’s the theme of the party.”

Willow makes a joke about how ‘poetic’ that sounded, and Charlie laughs herself and mentions it to looking like a funeral. Maxwell had a particular taste it seems. And money. Where on earth did a magician get so loaded that he could hold this sort of festivity? Then again, Willow never asked where Wilson got his funds from. (She pats the wallet in her pocket and briefly wonders how she’s going to prank him when she gets home.)

The dresses Charlie pull out for her are interesting enough, but not really suited to fire starters taste. They talk about little things as they shop; the boys, the weather, though the conversation finds itself lacking when Charlie asks where she’s from and Willow is quick to steer the conversation away and back to safer territory.

Willow learns some things. First of all; She has a sister, someone who actually worked here in town at a factory. (She wonders if she’s ever met her during pick ups and just didn’t realize it) Second of all: she was Maxwell’s assistant, (obviously, it was really more of a confirmation than a new detail.) much like herself was to Wilson but expect with magic and performing shows instead of experiments and whatever that thing he does in the morning with his beard hair. (He says he keeps it for scientific reasons but she knows it’s just him being weird again.)

Third: Charlie was very, very nosy.

“So!” She starts off in that playful, knowing tone that Willow has begun to recognize and the brunette squints at her before she even finishes speaking. “Are you looking for something sweet or suggestive?-” (Willow stops and nearly chokes at the word in surprise.) “”Or maybe just something practical?“

The firestarter puts the dress she was holding up back on the rack and raises her brow. “I’m looking for a dress that I like. I’m not out to impress anyone.”

Charlie smirks. “Not even Mr. Higgsbury?”

She hides it well, but Willow can hear her restrain a snort when the brunette stumbles over her own feet and almost slams into another store rack. “No!”

“So blunt!” The shorter woman allows the other space, though the mirth on her face doesn’t disappear. Willow frowns but it’s a pout kind of frown, avoiding Charlie’s gaze and looking out upon the dresses. No luck so far, couldn’t even find one in her sizes that didn’t look like a street reflector. “He’s my friend, I don’t think of him like that.” She’s also a fugitive. No time for that nonsense.

“Oh, I believe you.” Charlie’s response is more relaxed, and Willow hopes she’s dropped the subject. Something in her tells her that her reaction has only fueled the woman’s curiosity and she’ll get the worst of it much later. She inwardly groans.

“How about this one here? It looks to be your size.” Amber eyes trail over to where her voice directed. It does look to be her size, actually. And it’s a black, sooty color. Like charcoal. It’s likable already.

Willow takes the dress off the rack and gives Charlie a little nod, running over to the changing room. When she comes out again, she hears a happy noise. “That one will do just fine, don’t you think?” Her voice is approving, and it sends a tiny blush to the brunette’s cheeks as she lifts the dress’s bottom half to walk in a little circle. The fabric is soft, the collar white with petal shaped sleeves and trim, a thin, white band separating the mid-section.

“Wow.” She does a tiny twirl. The bottom of the dress ripples like black fire.“I look fancy smancy, don’t I?”

Charlie grins. “You’ll be stealing hearts, I promise you.”

“Oh, shut it.”

They laugh, and Willow ends up buying it. With money, that remind you, is not even hers. But the price didn’t look too steep, at least. She hopes wasn’t too steep. It defiantly didn’t match the other tags of some of flashy dresses available.

They talk a bit more, but it mostly consists of Charlie telling Willow a bit more of her and Maxwell. They met through the paper, funny enough. He had put out an ad for an assistant and she answered. The likeness of the situations was enough to make the firestarter stare in disbelief. (She doesn’t say anything though because that would be weird, and she’d rather not switch the conversation over to her in the first place.)

“That reminds me,” Willow begins and the other woman cocks her head to listen. The sun is settling over the town. “How did Maxwell and Wilson meet, anyways? They seem to hate each other.”

For once in the time they’ve been walking together, Charlie’s smile drops. Her brows furrow and confusion runs across her features. Her eyes look away. “I don’t know, actually.” Her voice has become more timid. The firestarter feels a touch of guilt. “They met sometime before Max ever hired me, I think. He never told me how or what they do. Just changes the topic whenever I bring it up.” She sighs. “He can be so secretive, sometimes.”

The pryo musters up a tiny smile and gives her a pat on the shoulder. Her sympathy is slightly hypocritical, but she ignores the guilt for it. “Guess we’re in the same boat, then. Except I’m not dating my boss.” 

Charlie falters. A hot blush spreads across her face. “I never said I was dating him!”

“You had the nerve to ask me if I fancied Wilson!”

The two bicker but the smiles are back and full force and eventually fall into a bout of giggling and inside jokes. The news paper stand has been forgotten, the ink printed with her crimes wiped from her mind, for the time being.

When they part, it’s with a promise Willow will cheer her on at her performance in the coming days. Charlie waves to her as she leaves, the firestarter watching as she disappears on the other street behind passing cars and the glow of streetlamps. Those things, along with the rest of the civilization’s lights, disappear as she treks through the road into the forest.

She goes through the front door of home, she finds Wilson in the living room, fast asleep on the sofa with papers and a marker nearly falling from his hand. The fireplace is lit and there’s a still-hot cup of tea on the table next to him.

“Wilson?” She approaches him. No answer, he’s fast asleep. He looks so peaceful, so restful. He also snores a little bit. She wonders how long did he stay up in the laboratory without taking a break. (Or why he’s out here and not in bed.)

Willow feels for the wallet in her pocket, fishing it out and setting it on the coffee table. It’ll be there when he wakes up, and she can lock herself in her room and dote on her new dress. Maybe she’ll use the excuse of being asleep before he wakes so he doesn’t question her choice of purchase, perhaps.

Pulling off her coat and hanging it up, she walks over to the fireplace and sticks her fingers inside. The feeling hits her immediately and she lets out a deep breath. It was like the tension from the day was seeping out of her fingertips, falling into the pit to roast in the flames. Fire whittles through her worries like dry tinder. Maybe she should buy all those newspapers and set them all ablaze in one big bonfire.

A mummer, and Willow turns. But there’s only silence, Wilson is still fast asleep on the sofa. The brunette shakes her head and stands. Maybe she should go to bed, she was starting to hear things-

Another mummer, and her ears peak to listen. Slowly, her gaze falls upon the sleeping scientist. His face is scrunched up ever so slightly and she can barely see the twitch of his mouth as he grits his teeth in his sleep, his fists curling into a ball. Was he…sleep talking?

“Wilson, you awake over there?” She calls out to him. Her voice doesn’t rouse him though, he stays in the same state. Slowly, she approaches the side of the couch and leans forward. It’s not enough to be inappropriate, but it’s enough to listen. She’s half a mind to shake him awake but her hand freezes when speaks again.

Words of science she can’t understand. Chemical formulas. Blueprints. Lightning. Shadows. Other sentences she can’t make anything out of. The assistant frowns and reaches out to his shoulder. This has gone on long enough, and she knows a nightmare when she sees one. “Hey, nerd, it’s time to rise and shine-”

The second her finger tips touch his shirt, his body jerks and his own hand flies up, catching it in a hard grip. It brings her down closer, nearly crushing her hand and she lets out a squeak in surprise. Wilson has sat up with alarming speed and holding her arm hostage.

Wide, sharp eyes stare not at her, but spaced out. In shock. or fear.

It takes him a moment, but realization hits him and he lets her go. “I’m…sorry about that.” He takes a deep breath as she retracts her hand, but makes no move to step backwards. He’s running a hand down his face with a groan when he see’s the traces of concern on her face. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

“Me? Scare you? You’re the one that nearly broke my hand!” She’s exaggerating and she knows it, but a touch of a dramatic flair wasn’t something she was against now and then. “Sleep much?”

“I try to.” He shakes his head, one hand rubbing his temples the other used to steady himself as he throws his legs back over the side of the couch. Willow takes a few steps backwards for distance. Wilson’s eyes remain on the floor for sometime, and when they trail upwards, they fall upon the wallet left out on the table. “Ah. Right. How did you’re little shopping trip go?”

The firestarter crosses her arms and frowns. “Oh, no. Not changing the subject here. Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”

A tired gaze meets her eyes. His lab coat and gloves are missing, clad in only his vest and slacks. Without the goggles and in the fireplace’s light, it’s easier to see the dark bags underneath his eyes. Wilson does not appear to be in the mood for jest. “No. Did you find what you were looking for?” His tone is blunt and solid. It almost seems cold.

She wants to comment on his curt answer but the look on his face prevents her from doing so. Instead, Willow huffs and moves to the fireplace, plopping down inside and letting the fire trickle up his body. She feels his gaze soften as she does so but the annoyance (or concern. describing her emotions was never really her forte.) was still evident.

“Yeah, I did actually.” She watches him shuffle through the remaining bills in the wallet and stuff in back in his vest pocket without a word. “Miss me while I’ve been gone?” She questions with the slightest of attitude. She means if he missed having her help with science stuff while she’s been out, but it the words come out a bit fumbled. Something like that.

He sends a blank look in her direction and props his elbow up on his knee, resting his head on his hand. His hair is wild, ruffled and messed up from his abrupt awaking. “Would it make you feel better if I told you I did?”

“Nope.”

“Then no, I did not miss you.” Boy, he sure is grumpy when he just wakes up, isn’t he?

Willow copies his tone of voice and mocks him from the safety of her fire. It’s childish, an immature act (and he frankly tells her that) but there’s a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. Small, but it’s enough to make his face a little less irritable.

The papers he was holding have fallen to the floor, so he bends down over to pick them up, stealing glancing at the marvel that was the flames running up and down her arms. (How did her clothes not burn? He was too tired to think about that, so he settles for just sipping his tea and being fascinated by the sight.) “Did you get the razor I asked you to get while you were out?”

His assistant pauses and she slinks back even further into the fireplace that Wilson didn’t even know was possible until she’s completely engulfed in the flames. She gives a sheepish grin and a shrug. “Oops.”

He frowns and tosses the marker in her direction. It bonks her on the forehead and leaves an ink mark that looks funny enough to rise a chuckle out of him, until the pen is thrown right back and she’s laughing at the black streak across his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright folks who's ready to get this plot rolling


	8. The Gala

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Start channeling your inner Great-Gatsby for this one.  
> This chapter is a little over the length of two chapters combined. Happy (late) Valentines day.  
> Note: Containing alcohol/drinking, shadow creatures and (1) mention of puke because someone can't hold their hold their liquor :)

Well, today was the day of the Gala, featuring the ‘The Amazing Maxwell’ and his magical performance. Willow was a bit nervous.

Maybe it was the dress, just a little bit. It fit perfectly around her body, the bottom half flowing outwards, she even liked how it moved when she does a little twirl. Didn’t look half bad with the little black heels she bought either, comfortable enough to walk in, or dance, if the need ever arises.

She didn’t own any jewelry, and her make up was scarce at best but she tried to combine them anyways. A faint, tinted red lipstick that Charlie recommended and a bit of eyeliner she painfully stood still for nearly ten minutes applying. (She almost jabbed herself in the eye with the pencil, the damn thing.) The little mirror she found stashed away in the desk of her room was her only reflection she could rely on. There’s the washroom mirror, sure, but Wilson might see her then.

A knock on her door. Speak of the devil. “I’ll be in my lab when you’re ready.” His voice comes from the other side of the wood, growing distance as he walked towards the stairs. “We’ll need to leave here in about twenty, please. Let me know whenever you’re done.”

Willow calls out an answer and hears the attic door shut, taking a deep breathe and smoothing down the dress. She doubly checks the pigtails she’s curled were still well done and adjusts her collar. She tries to ignore the odd restlessness she feels.

Maybe it’s just the dress. Or maybe it’s having her face being shown in public; such a big party too. But the attention won’t be on her, right? No one will recognize her, she’s ran so far. As long as she keeps her urges under check (can’t take the lighter to the gala anyways, there’s no pocket in her dress to keep it in) then no one will suspect a thing. Plus, she promised Wilson. So there’s that.

Willow inhales, giving Bernie a little squeeze of comfort before setting him down and walking out of her room. She reaches the attic door and knocks on it, once, twice, just like she promised she’d start doing before she swings it open and puts on a false smile of confidence. Fake it till you make it. “Alright, ready to party, I guess.” She says as she steps inside. “What about you?”

Wilson is in a suit adorned in red and black, and she briefly thinks it suits him. (Ha, what a pun.) Though, he’s got his gloves on and fiddling with a test tube with a green, sizzling liquid inside. He doesn’t turn to look at her, pouring the liquid into another tube nearby. “Yes, just a moment here. Taking care of this before we leave. I’ll forget otherwise.”

Willow wants to mention how it might stain his clothes if he happens to spill but says nothing. He knows what he’s doing, probably. Still, she walks a bit closer, arms folded behind her back and peering over his shoulder. “What is that?”

“Grounded up and liquefied bits of…something. Not sure yet, but I’ll be calling it experiment ‘Green’ for the time being.” He answers her. There’s half of a rock on a tray next to him, looking similar to the yellow gem from before expect a more emerald colorful. It’s a bit frightening to realize it at first what he has, though it doesn’t look like this gem is going to explode any time soon so she relaxes a bit. Smells weird though, like tangy and acidic.

“There we are! Fickle thing, burned through most of my glassware but I think i found a material strong enough to contain it.” A grin is on his face. He should really be wearing his lab coat and goggles for this. Willow takes a step back when he swivels around to see her, the hand holding the tube dripping a little out on the desk. “Alright, let’s get our coats and we’ll…just…”

Aaaaaand he’s looking at her weird. Willow can’t pinpoint that kind of reaction, but it sends a tiny bit of nervousness up her spine and she fidgets in her spot, avoiding his eyes. “Coats, right. Downstairs.” She mummers, fiddling with the end of her sleeves. A glance towards the scientist tells her that his eyebrows have shot towards the sky. “…Do I look bad or something?”

“Huh? What?” AS if broken from a daze, Wilson’s form springs to life in fidgets and shaking his head. Willow see’s the liquid from the tube dripping out onto the desk and opens her mouth to say something, but is cut off by the scientist’s frantic speaking. “No! I mean, of course not!” He gives a nervous laugh and waves an arm out to her, putting one hand on the desk to lean casually. “You look great! I mean, fine. Not that I’m saying you’re not fine, it’s just- uh, what I’m trying to say is that I think-”

His sentence ends with a croak when his hand breaks _through the wood of his desk_ , sending him with his weight fumbled over with his arm stuck in the hole. Willow gasped, running over and pulling on his shoulder as scientist struggles to dislodge his arm. “Well! This is, um….” He grunts, yanking his hand from the hole and stumbling back a few steps, his assistant moving with him. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. My mistake, actually…”

Willow looks down. The liquid has burned a hole though the wooden surface of the desk, through it’s contents and is now sizzling in a spot, hardened to a jelly-like substance on the floor. Wilson takes a moment to compose himself, tearing off his gloves and holding them up for emphasis. A little burst of laughter comes out from him. “These things are always saving me! I love them, I tell you!”

He’s gaze drops from the gloves to the brunette, flashing over the dress quickly before clearing his throat and tossing the gloves to the desk chair. “Besides you. The saving me part, I mean.”

Willow fights back a nervous laugh herself and instead settles for a lop-sided smile. “Thanks, but they didn’t save your desk though.”

The scientist shrugs. “No, but that can be replaced. My arm cannot.” He flexes his hand in emphasis, straightening his suit as he gave the lab mess a quick look-over. Nothing that can be done about it now. Damn him and his habits of momentary distraction. She at least knocked this time, he’ll give her that. Though he might have forgotten about the whole dress part. She never let him see if prior to this little incident. “Let’s head out then.We’ll be late if we don’t leave now.”

She raises a brow. “You seem eager to go.”

“The quicker we get there, the quicker we can get this over with.” His face is the slightest touch of red. He’s put some sort of gel in his hair, curling the top piece into a swirl similar to the way she’s curled the ends of her pigtails. (It makes her play with one of them instinctively, and he thins his mouth at the motion and turns away.) “You look nice, by the way.”

Willow stops playing with her hair and looks up. There’s a faint smile on her lips. Painted a faint red, he’s noticed. Not that it’s important or anything. “Thanks.” She smiles. Wilson simply nods, gesturing towards the door. He wishes he had his goggles on, those things did quite a good job at concealing facial expressions and he’s sure that the heat crawling up his face was not something small. (Embarrassment, surely. A good scientist would never burn a hole through his own work station.)

They grab their coats and leave, and it’s come to Willow realization that there’s something in the driveway she’s never seen before. A car. Not a fancy one, not even a shiny one but a car nonetheless. It’s black and old, but sturdy looking. She peers into the tinted windows of the vehicle while Wilson finds his way to the passenger side, opening the door and gesturing for the her to take a seat.

Her mouth twitched in a grin. “Where did THIS come from, huh?” She exclaims. “You’ve had a car this whole time? Just letting me walk into town in the cold all those times, huh? Man, you’ve really been holding out on me here.”

“It’s a rental.” Wilson refutes. “And you didn’t actually expect us to both walk there, did you? We’d be walking all night, and I frankly don’t want to spend any more time out of my lab than I’d like to be. Especially at not some fraud’s little ‘get together.’”

Willow pouts at him, slinking into the seat and putting on her seat belt as he shuts her door and walks over to the driver’s side himself. “Charlie said it was gonna be big. Like, huge or something.” She adds on. Wilson mummers something incomprehensible as he buckles himself in, starting the engine. It sputters for a moment before roaring to life, and Willow sits giddy in her spot. “Can I drive?”

The scientists raises a brow. “Why? I paid for it.”

“I’m the best driver ever.” No she isn’t. “You should totally let me drive.”

“And lose my safety deposit on this car? I don’t think I’ll take the risk, no.” He refuses. She’s pouting at him, so a hint of a smile etches onto his face as he presses the gas and hits the road. “Why don’t you give the radio a try?”

Willow turns the knobs on the dashboard. Dusty, little black things that are stiff to turn when she moves them but static and noise is the only thing that comes out of the radio as she fiddles with it. She tries a few different stations. Old, choppy music that grates her ears. “Ugh. There’s nothing good playing.”

“I quite like this song, thank you very much.” Wilson pokes at her. She gives him a look and deliberately changes the station to men talking politics, news and other stuff she doesn’t care about. He frowns, keeping his eyes on the road. The outside world never really interested him, and he did not have the will to listen to rambles about insignificance events that don’t involve him. He’s a busy man, the less to think about, the better. “Shut it off. I’ve suddenly decided that I hate the radio.”

Willow laughs at him and turns the volume louder, earning a groan from the scientist. It’s funny, she giggles in her seat and watches the trees and town pass by as they drive. There were going down a road she’s never been down before, she realizes. Then again, this was a bit further out than she’s ever walked. And she never cared to memorize the places where she drops in for a time while she was on the run….Well, she wasn’t on the run anymore. But still, she’s a tad lazy.

They enter a more forestry area, much alike the one surrounding his cabin and Willow is so caught up in staring out the window that the radio has tuned itself out. Until she hears one of the hosts say some key words and her attention is glued to the sound. “And in more news today, we’ll discuss a criminal that hasn’t yet been found. Though the trail has gone cold, police are still searching for the vandal and attempted murderer who was last seen two years ago around the-”

A hand reaches out and turns the knob off. Wilson blinks at the sudden silence, and quickly glances over to woman sitting in the passenger seat. She’s staring at the radio, her gaze shifting to him for hardly a second before leaning back in her seat and returning to glare out the window. Winkles form on his head and he opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to it. “Them talking was starting to give me a headache.” She says, “Sorry.”

It feels like there’s something more to the reason, but he lets it pass. He didn’t really care for the new-station anyways. “Well I hope you start to feel better soon. We’ll be there shortly, and I don’t expect the lights and crowds will do your headache any good.”

He sees her shrug out of the corner of his eye and decides to go quiet. The rest of the ride is in silence, with the occasional comment from Willow asking when they’ll be there. “No, we’ll get there when we get there.” Wilson says. He’s pretty sure she’s just saying it to distract him at this point. He wasn’t gonna let her drive, not for the life of him. Eventually she gets sick of the silence and resorts to playing a game, (She called it ‘I-spy’, and he’s not sure if she just made it up or not.) and of course, has roped him into playing it with her.

“I spy, with my little eye-” Willow hums and glances around the car. “Something black.”

Wilson smiles. “The car.”

“Nope.”

“My suit.”

“Nah.”

“…Your dress?”

She snorts. “Nice try, but no.”

Wilson taps his fingers against the steering wheel as they pull up to a stop sign and takes the moment to turn his head and give her a look. He regrets doing so, because when he turns he finds her sticking her tongue out at him. “Well, we’re both wearing black. The car is black. The sky isn’t that dark yet so I have no the faintest idea of what you’re referencing.” He tells her, driving forwards. “I think you’re pulling my leg.”

The firestarter briefly acknowledges that it is, indeed, late in the evening but it looks more like a blueish purple than it does black. That’s how she knows she’s got him a tad bit annoyed. “It’s your hair, dummy.”

Wilson wants to frown, but a chuckle comes out instead. He doesn’t know why it’s funny to him. “That one is cheap. It’s my turn.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but he thinks for a moment. “I spy with my smart eye-” (Willow butts in to tell him that it’s ‘little’ and not ‘smart’ but he ignores her.) “-something red.”

He hears her shuffle in her seat, leaning forwards. “The Gala?”

The scientist blinks. “What? No, it’s your-” Lights reflect off the glass of the windshield, and he slows down, peering out onto the driveway of the property they’re passing. It’s a house, big and fancy. It’s not Maxwell’s, but some other sponsors dumb enough to let the magician host the gala. Wilson takes a sharp right turn and finds a spot in the parking lot. “Never mind. We’re here.”

He unbuckles himself and hears her shuffle quickly to remove herself from the car, running around the front before he’s even out of the driver’s seat. He pouts and mummers something at the opportunity to open her door for her lost. He’s just trying to follow the gentleman’s code, after all. She doesn’t seem to notice his comment, though.

Willow stands at the entrance. Stairs lead up to a big door, a man in a dark suit and a badge holding position at the front. The sight of him gives her anxiety at first; he looks stern, looks like a police officer from a distance but coming a little closer tells her that it’s just some dolled up bouncer. The fancy bars back in her hometown had these nifty guys there too, she remembers.

Wilson is walking a little bit ahead of hers, she’s too far struck in her awe of the massive building itself to even register him passing her. The guard straightens his posture as they approach, holding a clipboard in one hand. She can hear music and people talking coming from inside. “Name, Mr?”

“Higgsbury.” The scientist is posed with hands behind his back and chin held high. The man gives a slight frown, his brows furrowing in distaste but nods in recognition anyway, marking off a little scratch of ink on the last page. Then his gaze turns to Willow, and she finds herself frozen on the spot. “And your wife?” He adds on.

“My guest.” Wilson corrects. The stranger holds his gaze for a moment on her, not enough to be rude but enough to make her uncomfortable, and Willow debates on slinking behind her boss himself before the stranger nods his head for both of them to enter inside. He doesn’t check the paper, she realizes. No complaints from her though, she’ll take any sort of anonymity she can get. Still, even walking in through the doors does she keep an eye on him as they pass. He glances in her direction, before returning to position and disappearing behind the doors.

The inside is lively, one would say. For a party that required names and invitation, there was an abundance of people there. Props too, and all dressed and colored in various shades of black, red and grey. At a glance one would say this to look like an expensive, extravagant funeral but the laughter and volume of chatter only debunked that image. The music was loud and chipper, the bodies of people dancing in the center of the room, whether in pairs or in groups,  seemed to be having the time of their lives.

Everyone was dressed in gowns and dresses and dashing suits alike. A large stage was set up on one side of the room, buffet tables and lounging areas positioned on the other. Willow stands and gawks at the scene before her, eyes wide in amazement. Man, when Charlie said that this party was going to be big, she didn’t think she mean’t THIS big. Everything looks so expensive! So fancy! She’s never seen anything as extravagant as this before.

Her excitement (and the slight jitterness from before) cannot be concealed, and her hand finds it’s way to Wilson’s arm, grasping it. “Look at this place!” She gushed, pinching the fabric of his suit and pulling it slightly. (He looks down at her hand for a moment in confusion but she misses it. Too distracted by all the balloons and streamers and other seemly pointless, over-the-top decor.  “This place is huge! everyone in here looks like a bajillion bucks!” She exclaims.

Wilson does not look impressed. In fact, he looks sorta unhappy to be there. “Bajillion is not a real number. And they’re supposed to be very important people. At least I think they are.”

Well, she does’t care for rich snobs if that’s what he was talking about. But this place? Everything looks so pretty, so decorated and carefully planned out. Not to mention all those streamers looked fantastically flammable. (She inwardly kicks herself for thinking that.) She tilts her head at him. “Yikes. You don’t sound happy to be here at all.”

Any sort of neutrality that was on his face prior is now gone. A solid, unchanging frown is on his face. With his slicked hair and a mouth turned downwards, he looks hilarious. “I _hate_ parties.”

“Willow!” A familiar voice sounds out, and the pair turn to see Charlie rushing towards them. Joy is etched on her face, a pretty dainty smile with it. Willow returns her own as the woman crashes into her with laughter and grasps both of her hands. “You made it! I was starting to worry that you weren’t coming, both of you are a bit late!” Her excitement is contagious. Willow feels her mood already become giddy. “Shame on both of you! You had me waiting.”

The brunette smirks and laces her arm with the other woman. Having such a bubbly friend is nice, she’s already attached. “What can I say? We’re arriving fashionably late today.” She teases. The darker haired woman holds back a snicker. Willow takes this moment to assess her dress. Black, of course, with black gloves and black heels. Her hair is pulled up into her usual style, though the ends are curled and a bright, blood red rose in full bloom is pined in it. It looks so elegant on her, (and makes Willow slightly self-conscious about her own appearance. Just a little though.) “You look like a bajillion bucks.” (Wilson mumbles something in the background and she almost forgot he was even there.) “Plan on impressing anybody tonight?” Willow smirks.

Charlie gives her a look. You know, the kind of look you give someone when they’re talking about an inside joke in public, a bit too close to other company. (She glances to Wilson, of course), and a faint blush runs across her face. “Not at all, thank you very much. This is my outfit for the show.” The woman waves her off with gloved fingers. “You look lovely tonight too, Willow! Don’t you think so, Mr. Higgsbury?”

Oh, she’s declaring war. If Willow didn’t like her, (and see the little grin hiding behind that smile of innocence of hers.) she would have dipped out by now. Charlie winks at her and the firestarter sticks out her bottom lip. Two can play at this game. “Of course he does. I’m fire in this dress.”

Wilson sounds a half-snort, half-croak from beside her at her pun. “What.”

Charlie bats her arm, it’s clear she’s holding back laughter. “Yes, you do! Absolutely stunning. I’m sure some single gentleman here would say the same themselves if you mingled, don’t you think so?” She sends a wink towards the scientist.

He stares at her blank faced. “Uh.”

Willow huffs at her sarcasm, (and frankly ignores Wilson’s reaction) and looks out onto the ballroom floor. At least she thinks it’s a ballroom. It was big enough to be one, lively dances like the Charleston and what not. Even a couple of pairs dancing slow though the jazz music was more upbeat than their movements. But the dancing isn't what caught her attention, but the food across the hall. And a certain magician standing near the table.

Target acquired. “Why don’t we go and ask Maxwell what he thinks about all those ‘single gentlemen’ you’re talking about?” She grins. Charlie’s face falters, opening her mouth to speak but cutting short when Willow quite literally yanks her towards the food table. “Hey! Magician! I’ve got a question for ya!”

They’re already halfway across to the food buffet before Maxwell even registers and turn to see his assistant (red in the face and at lost for words, he noticed) being dragged by what he recognizes as Willow herself. Oh, and Wilson following slowly and reluctantly behind. Oh, fun. “Good evening…?” He watches them rush up to him, their faces a pair of one of scheming and another of panic. “And what, exactly, would that be?”

Willow peaks at Charlie, (who’s wide-eyed and face matching nearly the color of the rose in her hair) before turning to the magician with a wide, flashing grin. “How’d you afford all this fancy shit anyways?”

Maxwell blinks, Charlie gawks, and Wilson sighs at her all at once. The rose-woman in particular pulls her away in a midst of embarrassing giggles and snickers as they both bounce off further away. The scientist can hear little bits and pieces of their conversation as they depart, soft laughter and teasing and other words he can’t quite make out but their voices are rushed and filled with giddiness. The flush on Miss Charlie’s face is evident, he can tell. The slight flush on Willow’s is…less so. But it’s there, and it makes him squint in her direction.

The magician next to him sips from the wine glass he was holding prior, staring off into their direction with muted interest. “Any clue as to what that whole thing was about?”

“Not the faintest idea.” Wilson shakes his head, straightening his posture and turning to the taller man. Straight to business, then. “So, about that favor you owe me. I’d like to collect on that as soon as possible. I don’t plan on staying here for very long and I’d like to get back to my work.”

Maxwell glowers down at him, and Wilson curses the man’s unusually tall height. “Leaving so soon? You and your assistant just arrived! Why not stay and enjoy the party for a bit?” He offers. “You should stay and see my show, pal. You never have before.”

“I don’t care for parties.” Wilson sneers. “And I don’t care for your ‘magic shows’. I’m here to meet new publishers and get what I came for.”

“But the show is the best part! And you’ll have something to spike up a conversation with those ‘publishers’ of yours.” He jests. Wilson does not like the smile he adorns. “They’re all a bit stuck up. I’m sure after a good performance they’ll be open to talk about how wonderful my act was. You can jutt in your little science gig, I suppose. Whatever suits your fancy.”

If Wilson’s frown could go any deeper, it would have. “I’m not wanting any who believe in your tricks.”

“Doesn’t matter whether they believe what they see, Higgsbury.” Maxwell picks something up from the table, a second wine glass filled with a dark, unidentifiable liquid. “The only thing that matters is that they’re entertained.”

He holds it out towards Wilson. “Besides. You need to loosen up, pal. Coming from a _friend_.” The word sounds strangely strained. Sharp eyes glare at him. “You’ll work yourself into a rutt with those failed experiments of yours.”

Wilson shakes his head. “Oh, no thank you. I don’t drink.” He says as he accepts the wine glass and takes a swig. Maxwell raises a brow at the action. “I can see that.”

The drink is fruity, and it hardly smells like alcohol but it’s there all right. He doesn’t need anymore than a sip. Just whatever will get him through this night. He can tell it’s already going to be hellish one for him. ‘MAGIC,’ Ha, what a laughable concept. And these idiots were out here dancing to the idea of it. Some were even paying money. Wilson felt sorry for the poor fool who funded this fraud of a Gala.

“Back to the important matter at hand,” He swirls the liquid in his glass for a moment. “Where is the thing I asked you for?”

Maxwell grins at him. “Oh, that. I’ll have that ready for you, but only after the show. I suppose you’ll just have to stick around and enjoy yourself for a while until it’s over, hmm?”

A quick flick of the wrist, and wine has been splashed over the front of Maxwell’s suit. The taller man blinks down in shock where Wilson’s drink spilled, said scientist growing a mischievous smile to his expression. “Whoops.”

“Why, you little-”

“Maxwell!” Another voice breaks the tension between them and both men turn to see their dates (dates? no, guests of course. This wasn’t a date at all!) returning to them. Both women stopped at the scene before them, staring at the two in a mix of confusion and surprise. Charlie puts a hand to her mouth and gasped. “What happens?”

“Oh, this?” Maxwell shrugs off his suit (It was bright white. There’s no way that stain was coming out. Wilson feels a tiny, guilty pride at the thought.) and folds it around his arm, a friendly demeanor coming back to him. Well, as friendly as Maxwell Carter could manage to keep up. “Just an accident. Mr Higgsbury here is just being his clumsy, usual self, as you can see.”

Charlie and Willow furrow their brows both, and the firestarter glances over to the accused scientist in question. He simply shrugs and takes a sip from the glass he’s holding. It’s red, she notes. And it smells good. There’s an assortment of drinks on the table behind them.

Charlie and Maxwell engage in a conversation that she tunes out, (little tid-bits of the show, what he was going to do with his suit jacket, something about a book, yada-yada, things that didn’t really catch her interest, really.) and instead leans over to scan the food on the table. The glasses are color assorted (oh, rich people and their weird habits of food decor) with brighter reds traveling down to greens and clear liquids. She takes the glass with the brightest red liquid inside and gives it a tiny sniff before a trying a little sip.

Wilson is giving her an odd look when she pulls back. It tastes good! Spicy, even, she wonders what kind of hot fruit is inside that juice. She takes anther sip, and finds that Charlie has also taken glass as well, now with all four of them holding drinks. (It’s very movie-esc, she thinks. The sight of them must be really fancy.)

Maxwell has set his glass down though, and Wilson doesn’t seem to be too interested in his drink very much. He’s gone quiet, sorta just staring off in thought as the conversation between the four of them goes between them. He’s not very attentive. Or interested. Or maybe he’s just looking for something, she realizes. (Wasn’t there supposed to be some important publishers or something at this place?) His gaze is out among the crowd, scanning and searching. It flickers between people either but never lingers on a single person. His frown is still there. It makes her feel a little sad.

Suddenly, his eyes turn and meet hers, and Willow makes the abrupt decision to chug her drink to try and conceal her staring. Wilson’s face becomes a bit alarmed. “Do you know what that is?”

The firestarter swallows and sets the empty glass down on the table. “Uh, yeah. I think so.” She grabs another glass, and misses how the scientist stares at her hand going for the drink. “Red pepper I think?” She didn’t know of any other spicy food that could be turned into juice. (and odd formation, but it tasted good so she’s not complaining.)

Wilson’s posture becomes slightly deflated and stares at her. “No, no, that’s not-”

“It’s dragon-fruit, actually.” Maxwell interrupts him, earning glare from the dark haired man himself. “What you’re holding there is made from dragon-fruit, imported out of the country. Never had it myself, couldn’t take it.” He gives her a little nod, and Charlie winks in her direction.

Willow tilts her chin up and grins. Of course they wouldn’t be able to take it, no one has ever been able to best her in the sport of consuming extremely spicy foods! “I can handle it.”

She hears laughter at her boastful reaction. Wilson shuffles in his spot but says nothing. Well, if she said she could handle it, she could handle it, right? He wasn’t going to police her on her drinking habits. Still, it was sorta odd to see her-

“The show!” Charlie exclaims. She grabs Maxwell by the arm and almost yanks him down to her height. (Considering she was even shorter than Willow and he was very, very tall man, that was such a feat they didn’t think she was even capable of.) “We lost track of time. We should get ready.”

The magician pauses for a moment, flicking out a wrist watch and glancing at the time. A look of sternness comes across his face before he clicks it shut and gives the scientist and firestarter alike a welcoming, warm grin. “I’d love to stay and chat, but she’s right. We’ve a performance to put on.” He turns to Wilson slightly, and tilts his head lower. “Please, do try to enjoy yourselves. Both of you.”

Wilson wrinkles his nose at his back as they both leave, scoffing as they’re out of earshot. Willow waves Charlie off. (She wants to yell good luck to her, but the thought of bringing attention to herself prevents her from doing so.) and watches them disappear behind the bodies of people dancing. They all melded together somewhat, all dressed in black and moving about so actively. It’s comparable to a sea of people, with how easily blended together they all were…

Wait. Willow blinks, squinting into the crowd. A form dressed in pink, standing out among the dark colors and much smaller too. Hair in ringlets and standing timidly among the sea of people moving about she’s nearly easy to miss. But…

She’s staring at Willow. A little girl alone, a flower in her hair much like Charlies but instead of a rose it’s something of another breed. She can’t tell from this distance. What she does see, though, is the girl move like she’s taking a baby step towards them. She’s hesitant, and she’s looking between her and Wilson. Her eyes look so sad…so curious-

“Can you believe him? The audacity of that man.” Wilson’s voice breaks her concentration and Willow’s stare flickers to him out of instinct. Realizing her mistake, she turns back, but the girl is no longer there. A faint, wisp of her remains in that spot like she’s staring at her too. But Willow blinks and it’s gone. Her eyes must be playing tricks on her. She wished her lighter was here.

“Told me I had to wait until after the show to get the part I needed! Not part of the plan.” He sounds visibly upset, but that’s not much of change from the constant frown he was already adorning. The firestarter sets down her empty glass and sips on her third juice as he rambles. “Well, we’re all dolled up and we’re here. Might as well, right?”

He deadpans at her. “I’m not really interested in what ‘entertainment’ he has to offer.”

“What if I am?”

“Then I’d question your taste.”

Man, parties must be the absolute worst for him cause it’s like he has transformed into a whole new, grumpy sort of Wilson.

Willow rolls her eyes and gives him a little shove with her elbow. The man fumbles with his arm, glaring at her as he keeps his (nearly still-full) glass stable and awaits her excuse. “C’mon! Why can’t you just lighten up a little?” She pokes at him. Literally, pokes at him. Her finger prods at his chest and he swats her away and fixes the red suit piece he’s wearing before raising a brow at her. Willow cocks her head at him. “This is the best chance for you to call him out on his bullshit.”

Wilson opens his mouth to say something about her language, but shuts it closed. She did have a point. If he actually sat through one of those dreaded acts, there’s a possibility he could pick out the tricks the man did to fool the masses, and expose him for what he really was. (Well, maybe not stand up with a microphone and shout about how he was such a fake…perhaps a stern, well written letter will do. Yes, that’ll do just fine.)

As if on cue, (and Wilson hates the theatrics in that pun) the lights dim in the ballroom, and stage lights shine upon the stage. He stares at it with distaste, looking back to Willow only to blink in surprise to see her already walking towards the seating area with a glass in her hand and a bounce in her step. “You could at least wait for me, you know.” He catches up to her.

The seating area is packed, but there’s a pair of seats in the front row with ‘Higgsbury and guest’ sticky notes written hastily on it. Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a sigh but Willow is already making herself comfortable, tearing off the papers and tossing them somewhere in the dark. She pats down his seat with a loopy smile and he begrudgingly sits next to her. There’s no escape route, at least not from where he can see. Might as well get this over with.

A large man in a dark suit and pig-snort nose walks out onto the stage, and he can hear Willow giggling at the size of his top hat. Must be the man who funded this whole thing. “Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls!, I hope you’re ready for a night of mystery, magic and shadows from the likes of which you’ve never seen!” He announces to the crowd, a bout of cheers and clapping as their response. Wilson slinks lower in his seat. “Presenting, The Amazing Maxwell!”

The man runs off stage and the curtains pull back. Maxwell stands tall, haughty, (and without his suit jacket, the scientist happily notes) holding a book in one hand, and a cigar sticking out of his mouth. On the other side of the stage, Charlie stands at the ready, all smiles and poise. They look like quite a pair.

Willow’s voice becomes louder and he can hear her cheering her friend on. Well, at least she was enthusiastic.

The first trick is nothing special, only having to do with his cigar. Maxwell plucks the cigarette from his mouth and waves it around for the crowd to see, holding it up to the light and blowing grey clouds of smoke into the air. It travels down into the first row and Wilson has to resists a coughing fit. “And what’s this trick going to be? Giving us all lung cancer?”

Willow shushes him. Fine, be that way. The scientist turns just in time o see the magician toss the cigarette into the air, nothing falling down as the seconds passed. The crowd cooes and watches, gasps coming from them as he blows out a puff of smoke into the space in front of him, reaches into the cloud and pulls out the same cigarette. Then, he tosses it onto the floor. Blows a cloud of smoke and pulls out another one. Now he tosses it backstage. A cloud, and another cigarette appears. The crowd claps at the sight.

It’s boring and repetitive. “It’s just tape.” Wilson mummers. Willow stops her staring, (Her brain feels a little muffled. Muffled? Was that the right word? Maybe the smoke was getting to her) and sends him a questioning look. “Tape?”

“He tapes cigarettes to his fingers and pulls them out when he’s ‘plucking’ the air.” Wilson whispers, quiet enough not to be heard from any of the surrounding audience. “It’s plain as day.”

The next trick is easy enough. He takes a piece of paper and rips it into pieces, allowing all eyes to see that he’s tearing it up, as well as letting Charlie shred it into even smaller bits all together. Then, he crumples it into a ball in his hand, waves a hand around and thwarts it a few times, (he looks absolutely ridiculous) and pulls the paper out. It’s completely intact, a bit wrinkled, but all in one piece.

Willow automatically leans in closer to hear Wilson’s explanation, sipping on the last of her drink. “He tears the paper up, crumbles it into a ball and stuffs it up his sleeve. There’s another piece of paper in a tiny ball in the space between his thumb and pointer finger. He uses that one to make it look like he made it whole again.” The man glances towards her while he talks, squinting at her reaction as the show continues. It’s a slight flush, but that may just be the dimness of the lights.

The next trick is a card trick so well known that it makes the scientist want to cover his head in the stupidity of it all. Maxwell calls up a volunteer from the audience. Individuals all raise their hands and yell to be picked, though he methodically scans the crowd (he briefly looks over Willow and Wilson has half of a mind to throw his glass at him) until he raises a finger and points to a smaller figure sitting in the back row. “You there! Come forward!”

The sound of soft pitter patter of dress shoes on the stage, and Willow nearly chokes on her drink. A girl in a baby pink dress, with light blonde hair and a flower pined on the side of her head steps to the middle of the stage. She looks out from the stage with a blank, vacant look. The child finds the front row and stares at them. She can practically feel Wilson roll his eyes.

“Of course he picked her. He’s probably roped her in on the whole act.” There’s recognition in his voice. Willow has to take a movement to process what he just said before she can voice her question. “What? Is he like, her dad or something?”

“His niece.” Wilson corrects. “And don’t let her hear you say that.”

He doesn’t offer anything more on the subject, and Willow lets it drop for the sight of watching the girl pick out a card from a deck the magician held. He makes her hold up the card to the crowd, a moment passing as he lets the sight soak in. (two of hearts, it looks like) and places it back into the deck. Maxwell shuffles the deck for a moment before letting her pick another card back out again, urging her to show the crowd.

It’s eight of spades. Willow blinks and confusion and Wilson feels a tiny smirk etch on his face. It’s short lived, though, because Maxwell takes the card from the girl, waves his hand over it and gives it back to her, letting her hold it up for the audience. Two of hearts.

Willow gives a soft hum of interest, frowning when she realizes her glass was now unforgivably empty. Huh, she’s never been this thirsty before. A glance over to Wilson tells her that he still has his nearly full one, so she inches her hand towards it. He doesn’t seem to notice. “The correct card is printed on the other side of the ‘wrong’ card.” The man huffs, watching as the girl walks off the stage, returning to her seat as the crowd expressed their awe. “Everyone here is a fool. At least you don’t believe this sort of…hey.”

The brunette pauses mid-sip of his drink (More like a gulp, since half of it is already gone already) and bats her eyelashes, with a fake innocence. “Hmm?”

Wilson gently plucks the glass from her hands and moves it to where it’s on the other side him, out of her reach. “I’m calling it here. That’s enough for you.”

Willow whines. “But you’re not even drinking it!”

“Actually! I am,” He takes a sip of the drink just for her to see. (It tastes bland now that he’s had it for so long, but as long as she lost interest with it he’ll do what he has to.) “See? It’s rude to just steal other people’s-”

“And now, for the grand finale!” Maxwell’s voice overtakes his own and they both return their attention to the stage. He has taken center position, Charlie by his side with a sizable distance between them. The book has been placed on the floor in that space, opened to a page he can’t read from this distance. “I will now summon a creature from another dimension, and all of you will witness it with your naked eyes!”

Wilson snorts. This was going to be ‘interesting’.

The magician pulls his arms back, hands moving in motions that are too quick for Willow’s eyes to follow but they circle around the book. It’s pages turn, the air around them grows colder. She hears Wilson mumble something about a fan somewhere before silence over takes the crowd. Something dark, something formless rises from the pages of the book like black ink, sputtering and changing into…something. Something not right. The room has gone dead silent.

A two-dimensional creature stares out upon the crowd. It’s teeth like jagged edges, it’s body shifting underneath the stage lights. They both go silent. Maxwell looks proud.

Then, it _screeches._

It’s loud and ear drum bursting, Wilson and Willow both flinch but before they can even move to cover their ears the room is quiet again, the shadow dispersed and the book is shut from cover to cover. Maxwell stands with the book in one hand, arms stretched out in show to the crowd. They hesitate, then clapping and cheering and hollering of the wildest kind you could imagine.

Charlie is holding her hands out too, a smile on for the show. But Willow can tell she’s terrified. Maybe it’s just the way the light hits her face or the slight tremble on her fingers as she bows. A quick glance to her co-worker tells her that he must be seeing the same thing. (and reassures her that it’s not her mind messing with her again, and she’s actually seeing what she thinks she’s seeing.)

The curtains are drawn, and the lights return to the normal intensity. Music begins to play again as the audience rises from their seat to return to whatever they were doing prior, chatter of the creature and it’s otherworldly-like in their conversations.

The firestarter swallows, the taste of the juice still staining the back of her throat. “So, uh. Whats your explanation for that one?”

“I…” Wilson falters. “I don’t know.”

They get up from their seats, (well, Wilson is able to get up. Willow has to clutch part of the arm rest to rise without toppling over for some reason.) and stand there silently for a moment, processing what was just seen. ‘Never seen the likes of it before’ indeed, he was at lost as to what to even categorize that as. Smoke and mirrors? Maybe the shadow was just tinted smoke, but it had eyes, and it stayed in one spot. The screech? What was even-

No matter. The show was over. He came here for one thing and one thing only. Suddenly his mood was ruined worse than is already was and he just didn’t even feel up to trying to shift out what publishers were here or not. Another day, sometime. He needed to find Maxwell.

Charlie approaches them, an awkward smile on her face though there’s still a tiny flash of fear in her expression. Her hands clasped together, her shoulders tense and the bead of sweat on her forehead. All the signs add up, clear as day. Willow doesn’t seem to notice, (or chooses not to put her on the spot for it) though. “HEY! You did, like, super freaking fantastic up there!” She lunges towards the darker woman and wraps her in a hug. “That was so awesome! Do you think you can include fire next time? Like, summon a fire monster or something? That would be the best thing ever, really. Or if you could like, do a fire show or something and make it where one of those cards explode or-

The brunette squeezes her tight in her bubbly rambling, enough to almost take the breath out of her but Charlie takes a deep breathe and wraps her arms around her friend. “Thank you. I’m glad you liked the show.” She doesn’t remark on her obvious intoxication. Most of the people in this party already were.

Wilson stands with his arms folded as the two woman embrace, and waits for Charlie to see him over Willow’s shoulder. There’s concern etched in his expression and a nervous fidget about him, but he looks like he’s ready to leave. Get the item and get out. Dark eyes meet sharp ones and he mouths a phrase to her hoping his assistant doesn’t hear. _Watch her, please?_

She catches on, and sends a smile his way. He knew that she was trustworthy. “Willow, do you want to go with me to get something to eat? I’m starving.” She offers, and the brunette in question gives a bob of the head. It would be funny looking if it wasn’t worrying enough. Well, at least now they knew she was an incredible light weight. “Let’s go try some pasties! Our good friend Warly catered the food here tonight. I’d think you’d really like some…” Her voice trails off, and he watches them link arms and saunter towards the buffet once more. Bread to sober her up? Smart woman.

Taking a deep breathe, Wilson adjusts his suit, walks up the stage and ducks behind the curtain. Maxwell is sitting on a stool, flipping through the pages of the book when he hears him approach, snapping it shut. “So! What did you think of the performance, Higgsbury? Are you a believer yet?”

Wilson merely glares at him. “Cheap tricks, as expected. Forgive my rudeness but I can’t say I’m impressed.” He waves a hand off in the air in mock, the magician huffing at the action but remaining silent. “I stayed for your little magic show. You still owe me what I came for, Max.”

The older man seems to darken. “Don’t call me that. And fine, here’s your little ‘favor’, as promise.”

He picks up the white suit jacket laying nearby, (Wilson curses having the item so close this whole time yet not having any idea) digging through the pockets and taking out a black box. It’s not very big, not too small either, just the right size to fit in his suit pocket though it sticks out a little bit. When he hands it to Wilson, the scientist finds it heavy and cold. And it’s…beating.

Scientific curiosity gets the best of him, and he pries the top of the box off, peering inside. “What…is this?”

“A Shadow Atrium.” Maxwell says.

Wilson caps the box and glares up at him. “No, seriously. What is this called? I don’t want you referring to any piece of my project with any of your weird, magic act names-”

“It’s not an act. And I wouldn’t play with that thing if I were you, pal.” He cuts him off. His face is twisted in seriousness, and the dark haired man is actually listening now. “If what you’ve told me before is correct, then that will be the perfect fit. But that’s not a toy, that’s not rock or a plaything for you to poke and prod at. It’s a dangerous, powerful thing you don’t understand.”

“It’s my life’s goal to discover and understand things. I don’t care about what you have to say about it.” Wilson pockets the box in his breast pocket, letting it sit in the front of his suit. It sits over his heart, he can feel the coldness through the fabric. (It’s beating. He swears it’s beating. It’s starting to fall into the rhythm of his own heart.) “Thank you.”

He takes a sip of the drink he’s still holding, as if to finalize his point. Maxwell looks hesitant and almost regretful. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Mr. Higgsbury!” A voice calls out, and both recognize it as Charlie’s. “I am so sorry! I am so, so sorry!”

The woman has bolted through the curtains, out of breathe and catching both men off-guard. Maxwell is quick to her side as she catches her breathe while Wilson shuffles uncomfortably in his spot, hand flying up to his pocket in a a reflex he doesn’t know he had.

If Charlie looked distressed before, she certainly looked a lot worse now. “I lost her!”

Wilson falters. “You what?”

“I lost her! She was right here, I mean. Next to me!” She’s panting, like she’s been running around for a minute in panic. Either she’s been searching frantically before finding them or running straight to the stage, it’s hard to tell. “I-i just… some people came up to me and wanted to shake my hand, for the show! I turned around for two seconds, I swear and she was gone. I don’t know where she went! I-I looked everywhere, I checked the ladies room and the buffet table and the.. the.. I looked everywhere. I don’t know-”

Wilson holds out a hand to her, comforting. He puts up the best reassuring face he’s ever mustered (even though his nerves are running at high speed right now) and tells her to try and calm down. “It’s alright. Willow is a capable young woman, I’m sure she’s fine.” She’s probably ok. Probably got distracted by a potted plant or something. Maybe trying to set it on fire.

Maxwell butts in. “Excuse me? Why is _your_ assistant causing _my_ assistant to act like this, Higgsbury?”

Wilson gives him a glare that could burn through the remainder of his ruined suit coat and points at him. “Later. If you’ll excuse me.” Before he leaves, he gives Charlie a faint nod of the head (she’s still apologizing profusely, but he doesn’t know what else to say and he really needs to find his assistant) before ducking thought he curtain and running out into the crowd.

The music is loud, the people are still dancing, and he realizes it’s going to be a bitch of a time trying to find her among the crowds of people all wearing the exact same color mushed together. (He’ll pardon his own language just for this once.)

The dance floor was packed, filled with bodies and people swinging about with each other. He looks out for a familiar set of pigtails but finds them to no avail. The sound of fireworks and people cheering reaches his ears as he makes his way to the buffet table. Not here, not anywhere near here. God, he was the worst person to have bringing to a fest like this. He hated parties, despised him. This was just going to fuel the idea.

Ok, Wilson; think. If you’re a drunk, bubbly, pyromaniac young woman with a an obsession for all things on fire and appreciation for all things fiery and bright, (and a habit of scaring the hell out of her coworker) where would you go?

Fireworks sound from outside. Of course.

He makes his way (runs, more like it) to one of the balconies, searching and scanning through the ones that had a clear view of the light show going on outside, ignoring the couples and children that had stepped outside to watch until he comes upon a vacant one, running out and leaning forwards to catch his breathe. It takes him a moment to realize, but he’s still holding the wine glass from so long ago. (Though there’s hardly nothing in it now, any remainder sloshed out long ago from his panic.)

Sure enough, there she is, leaning out on the balcony watching the fireworks explode in an array of colors and lights. Wilson manages to fill his lungs with air and stumbles his way up to the railing, leaning on it for support. “You.” He coughs, clearing his throat and taking a deep breath. “Do you have any idea….ha, any idea at all how worried we were all about you?”

Willow stares out at the night sky in a daze. Her movements are slow, sloppy even, as she turns her head to look at him. “You were worried ‘bout me?”

“Yes! You nearly gave Charlie a heart attack!” Wilson exclaims. And him too, but he’s got two hearts at the moment so he’ll dare say that he’ll be fine.

He watches her tilts her head and return to watching the fireworks. There’s a evident flush on her face only amplified by the colorful lights, paired with a aloof smile she wears. It brightens as a particularity loud one bursts against the sky, people from all around cheering as the show continued. “Look at them, Wilson.” She breathes. It’s got a hint of a giggle in it. “It’s so pretty.”

He leans with her, letting the tension seep from his shoulders as he tries to relax. “The fireworks?” He repeats, mindlessly tapping the bottom of the glass against the railing. “I guess.”

“No! I mean,” She spins and laughs, grabbing both his hands together and steering him to look out towards the show. “LOOK at them! Look! Look!” She babbled on, her voice slightly slurred. Wilson could easily bat her off if he wanted to but lets her move him, lights of red and yellows and greens and blues flying all through the dark of night. The sound of the people calling for more join the crackle of the fireworks.

She lets go of him just so she can throw her hands up into the air. “It’s pretty!”

He goes quiet, peering at her from the corner of his eye. She’s bouncy and animated, jumping in little circles as she cheers in tune with the others, her dress moving with her as she moved and pigtails becoming only a bit undone. He watches her as she gushes about the lights, colors bouncing off her face and her hair and giving her a more ethereal look. Her smile is bright. A little goofy, but bright as the sun.

Wilson swallows, pours the last bit of wine over the balcony side and decides that he’s also had a little bit too much to drink tonight. “I think it’s time we go home.”

“But I don’t WANT to go home!” She spins in a circle and nearly crashes into him, to which he holds his arms out in hurry just in time to catch her before she falls. She makes it work though, steadying her feet to peer up at him with a playful, sloppy grin. “I wanna stay! I wanna dance!”

“You can dance at home.” He protests but his reasoning doesn’t reach her ears. Instead, she wraps her arms around his torso (he hiccups at this, it’s a closeness that he’s certainly not used to and certainly not prepared for even if it’s warm and nice and from her-) and swings him around in a twirl. He has to keep his hands on her waist (god, help him) to prevent her from toppling over. “Dance with me!”

“I will not!” He tries to straighten her upright, but she ends up just falling forwards in a bout of giggles and putting her full weight on him. “C’monnnnnnn. Everyone is dancin’…I wanna dance-”

“I doubt you even know how to at this point.”

“Ughhh, you’re a kill joy!” She pushes him away in a form of mock anger (and ends up falling right back into her arms because otherwise she’d be falling off the balcony, and Wilson really wasn’t going to be having that.) “Fine. Whateves…I’ll go find someone body ELSE to be my dancin’ man. Like, Charlie or sumthin….or that one Warls-ly guy, hah…”

Wilson is screaming internally. He’d be screaming externally if it wasn’t for the fact that there’s a whole group of people partying away the next room over and his reputation has him known as a mad man already. He sighs, and looks around. No one was really close by, they were relatively alone. Good, no one to see his embarrassment.

He steadies her best as he can, booping her nose to doubly make sure she’s listening. “Okay, listen. Here’s the deal.” He pulls back his hand, holding one finger up. “One dance. _One_. Then we go home. Deal?”

Willow stares at him in drunken stupor, and her silly smile returns full force. “Deal!”

Well, he actually didn’t expect that to work but he’s not sure how he feels about it now that it has. He curses her persuasive nature. Or maybe he’s just gotten too passive. Either way, she’s throwing her arms around his neck and he’s mind is running at a thousand miles per second when their faces get very, very close.

His mind goes blank momentarily before coming to his senses. (The heart in his breast pocket skips a beat. At least he thinks it’s that one.) Wilson takes one of her hands and holds it outwards, putting the other hand on her hip to keep her steady and effectively putting a few inches between them. Just enough room to breathe, not enough room to calm him down. He looks down at her, in all her flushed face glory. “I don’t suppose you’ll be the one leading.”

Willow snorts and fumbles forwards, and he has to adjust them again. “I don’t even know what that means!”

Yeah, he didn’t think so. Still, he manages to figure out their footing, she’s terribly reliant on him in terms of weight so this won’t be no swing dance, and he’s not the best at slow dancing, can’t honestly remember the last time he even practiced but he hopes it’s enough.

One step, two steps. Three steps and they’re doing fine so far. The music barely reaches them from out here, and their dance doesn’t even match to tune of it anyways. She’s clumsy, nearly stepping on his feet (she never does, luckily, but that may also in part with him nearly keeping her upright himself) and he’s going about in a circle with his hand laced in hers. Willow’s hand tightens around his fingers and she opens to her mouth to say something but a hiccup comes out instead.

A nervous laugh, but a laugh nonetheless, comes out of Wilson. “Don’t throw up on me.”

“Nahhhh, I’m like...” She’s grinning but her head is lolling to one side to the other, it’s enough to make him dizzy until she leans closer and rests her head on his chest for some stability. “-totally fine. Yeah. This is like, really nice.”

Her head fits under his chin quite perfectly, and Wilson cannot speak the words he’s trying to form. Willow tugs her hand out of his own, joining it with the one around his neck and leaning against him fully. His hand hangs kinda awkwardly in the air for a moment before find it’s way to the middle of her back. A calm, collection motion, really not expressing the pure fluster that riled up in his chest and his heart racing and oh god she can probably hear it-

“M’ glad we’re friends, Wilson.” Her voice is muffled by his suit, but he can hear it even as a whisper. “You’re like, my bestest friend. ‘sides Bernie. He’s m’ best friend first though so he’s gonna be your buddy too.”

Wilson hums, leading her with his footsteps. He can’t see her face, but he can tell her voice she’s starting to get tired. “I’m glad we’re friends too.” He’s already established this. Isn’t that why he asked her to come with him to the Gala in the first place? “And I’ve already met Bernie. Seems like a decent bear to me.”

He feels her chuckle against his suit and her arms pull him even closer. Close enough to where this is…really not appropriate for two friends dancing. A gentleman such as himself should really be ashamed but she’s unpredictable, and frankly he’s afraid she’ll drop to the floor if he pulls back. (She smells like ash and charcoal and whatever perfume she sprayed on before they arrived and the scent is going to burn into his brain knowing he won’t be able to smell any three of those things without thinking of her arms wrapped around him.)

They dance for a minute, she’s making little jokes against him about how he should make fireworks with his ‘science stuff’, she misses her lighter, (he tuts on her for that and she wrinkles her nose at him) he asks her if she knew if what she was drinking was even alcoholic and her response is more of a half-hearted shrug than a decent answer. She probably figured it out as soon as she started feeling it, he theorized. Perhaps got a bit too tipsy to care though.

Bernie comes up again, she tells him that if Wilson was a teddy bear that he’d be black and have really spiky fur, and the scientist actually finds himself letting out a chuckle at the thought.

“M’ glad. He really likes you. I really like you.” She brings her head to look up at him. Wilson finds himself frozen, their dancing has come to a halt. Her bangs are ruffled and splayed over her forehead, her eyes are a bit watery, but the smile is still there. Their faces are closer.

He doesn’t really think about it when his hand comes up to brush her bangs back, or the way his throat closes up or how it’s gone silent and the fireworks had stopped minutes ago or the way the heart thumps in his pocket or how he can see the little detail of her eyeliner being smudged or that she’s got lipstick on his suit or-

Wilson pauses, lets her head fall back down on his chest and finds the stars very, very interesting.. “I like you too.”

He feels her take an arm off from around his neck, leaning back just enough to shove her pinky finger in his face (and almost up his nose) and staring at him with wide, expectant eyes, and that stupid, silly grin on her face. “Best friends forever?”

He thins his mouth into a line, brings his hand around to have his pinky wrap around hers and watches her face light up. “Sure.” She probably won’t remember this in the morning. “Best friends forever.

Of course she laughs again, a light, fluty noise prickled with intoxication and drunken sleepiness. It’s during this Wilson looks to the corner of his eye and see’s a familiar figure staring at them from across the hall. Maxwell’s eyebrows are raised to the ceiling, sipping at a drink as he watches. The scientist’s face immediately sours.

He pulls back from her (she whines something about that but he ignores her) and puts both hands on her shoulders, giving her a look over. Willow stares at him with a pouty lip and a flustered face, a little wobbly but keeping eye contact anyway. Doctor senses kicking in, she appears stable enough to make it to the car, at least. “Alright, there’s your dance. Time to go.”

She shakes her head and scrunches up her face. “But-”

“No. No buts, that was our deal. C’mon, I’ll help you.” He turns so she’s to the side of him, and she’s able to wrap around his arm as a guidance. He tries a few steps forwards, and while she’s bit stumbling she’s coherent enough to complain to him about wanting to stay and wanting to set the curtains on fire and he deems it well enough she could make it to the parking lot.

Wilson takes Willow by the hand, doubly checks the box in his suit pocket, and leads her forwards to the exit. She’s slow and complaining about her head but goes quiet, he finds, as she runs her thumb over the center of his palm.

Getting through the dance hall was easier said then done, she tried to pull away only once because she saw Charlie at the other end of the room with Maxwell standing nearby. (He’s whispering something in her ear, and the woman blinks at him in surprise before turning to stare at Wilson in shock. A twitch of a grin hits her face and he decides that she’s just as scheming as the magician himself.) The sight of them wasn’t too odd, there were drunks all around the place and Wilson, for once, is thankful for that. His reputation was ruinous as it is.

Getting her in the car is the hardest part, because for some damn reason, Willow as a grown women is refusing to put on her seat belt and Wilson has to strap her in himself resorting to empty threats to keep her from throwing it off herself. (“If you take that off one more time, I’ll schedule your mail runs on only rainy days.”) She whines something slurred and incoherent, and the car ride is full of mock ‘I-spies’ and him constantly looking over to see how she was fairing. (and no, no matter how many times she asked: he was not letting her drive.)

By the time they reach the house, he looks over and finds her conked out asleep with her head against the window. Just fantastic.

Willow groans as the passenger side door comes open, a rush of cold air hitting her and she wants nothing more than to just go back to sleep, to dreams of fire and colors and shadows and dragon-fruit. She doesn’t know what that is, but she imagined it looked like whatever it was named after, like a fruit that was actually shaped like a dragon. The thought wakes her up only slightly, a soft giggle against whatever picking her up and moving her around-

Wait, picking her up? What’s going on? Who’s doing what now? Was she sleeping?  Was this part of the dream? Everything is kinda fuzzy, and she can’t really focus cause her mind is running else where (briefly, she dreams that Bernie can dance and move around like her and it makes her giggle again) But the cold air has gone away and there’s the sound of footsteps on wood and Willow fidgets in her space as she’s being lifted downwards and suddenly feels very, very sick-

Oh, no. _That’s_ sick. Like, she just puked she thinks. All over whatever she was about to lay on. (It looks like a bed but it could also be just a really blocky cloud) Her eyes are open but everything is REALLY fuzzy and she thinks she’s in her room but she can’t know for sure, all she knows is that she hears a voice grumbling at her and her body is being moved again and suddenly she’s in a different room. It smells different. Weird, but not a bad weird. Like freshly cleaned laundry and printed ink paper.

Strange place, no idea where she was. Willow feels something (hands? were those hands?) come around her mid-section, her heels are coming off (are they stealing her shoes!?) and her hand comes out of pure  reflex to smack whatever is touching her (She could take them! She’s got street smarts!) and she hits something and whatever it is pulls back and, oh, there’s warmth. And softness. Like, really soft. Like a big ole' comforter has been tucked around her all comfy and warm and it’s not fire but it’s nice. Oh, it’s so nice. She decides she doesn’t have a problem where she’s at anymore and snuggles deeper into the soft and the warm.

Footsteps leave, then return, and something is being placed near her head and through bleak eyes she squints at it in the dim lighting. It’s cuddly, smells like charcoal and old memories and Willow sequels as she pulls Bernie closer to her chest, mumbling words of thanks and appreciation to whatever or whoever brought him to her.

Silence, then she thinks she hears a voice answer. It sounds tired and annoyed but there’s something else in the tone and it makes her feel safe. It makes her reach out again and she grabs something this time, her senses tell her it’s a hand and that it’s bigger than hers, and it’s reluctant to come forward as she holds it but she runs her fingers over the skin of the palm, feeling the healing scar from the star stitched in his skin.

She brings it to her mouth and kisses it, just like you’re supposed to do with all boo-boos, and tells him that she’s sorry.

The hand tenses before pulling away. Something else is said, but she can’t understand it. Something touches her forehead very quickly, leaves, then the door to the room is shut and she’s left to sleep off whatever this was that was making her feel so freaking fuzzy. Like a dog. Fuzzy just like a dog. Hah.

Outside his room, Wilson runs a hand down his face, sighs, and swears on the name of science that he will never attend another party ever again.


	9. Hangover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Vomit mention. Hangover time.

Everything sucked. Her head hurt, her body felt sore and her stomach was churning. Her mouth tasted really, really gross and everything just really, absolutely sucked right now.

Willow groans, light invading the skin of her eyelids and she absentmindedly bats at the air with a tired arm at whatever is causing the intrusion. Nothing there, the soft touch of a curtain reaches her fingertips but it’s to far away for her to shut the blinds closed without having to sit up and face the world in all her nauseous, sick and grumpy glory.

The firestarter whines something incoherent and takes the pillow and shoves it over her head, effectively blocking out the light source and allowing her some relief from the headache that came with it. (It’s still there, though, throbbing against her skull) and sinks back into the soft and the warm, welcoming sleep to come back to her again-

Wait. Pillow. There’s a pillow here. She’s in a bed. It smells familiar. Not too long ago she was at a magic show. Alarm surges. Willow sits up with lightning speed and scans the room with wide eyes and a racing heart.

This place was not the Gala. In fact, she wasn’t exactly sure what this room was in the first place. Her vision is a bit blurry, everything is muffled and she’s got the slightest case of double vision going on but with the clues of a bed she’s laying over and the light peaking through a window across from her, it appears to be a bedroom. It’s somewhat plain. The bed is about twice the size of her own, there’s a desk on the other side of the room that looks old and unused, and a wardrobe on the other side.

Instinctively, Willow feels for the lighter in her pocket but finds nothing but the skirt of her party dress and panics.

This was NOT her room. Not home, no idea how she got here and how long she’s been here and where are her shoes?? She’s been tucked in the comforters and there’s not a single memory she can bring to mind that she’s put herself here, in some random bed (please, god don’t tell her she wasn’t taken home by a stranger) and waking up alone in a room with a raging hangover and no sign that she’ll be collecting her baring any time soon.

Ok, think. What was the last thing she remembers? The party, the Gala for sure. The taste of those drinks that she really liked (though the thought of them now only makes the taste in her mouth much more disgusting) and the dancing, happy people. The magic show, right! The last thing she remembers clearly is the show, Maxwell and Charlie doing tricks for the audience all while Wilson debunked every single act, the screech of that creature that was summoned though after that it’s blurry and fuzzed and everything falls into bit and pieces of pretty colors and the night sky and-

Willow blinks and her hands fly up to her hair to nearly rip apart her pigtails. Wilson, that damnable scientist, was no where in sight and frankly she cannot imagine what he’s going to say to her once she finds her way home.

“Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.” Willow scrambles out of bed, (she half-regrets doing so in such a hurry. Her stomach aches and churns as she moves and the the world around tilts as she tries to do something as simple as standing up.) but she moves too quickly and her knees falter on her, sending her to the ground with a thud. It bumps her knee but the panic overwhelms the feeling and she’s fumbling to rise again, using a nearby end table to try and get steady.

Whoever lives here must have heard her crash, because the sound of a chair being pushed back in another room reaches her ears. It’s muffled, but she can hear it and oh does it make her scramble faster and hurry to gather herself because whoever’s house this was, wherever she was, she did NOT want to stick around to see whoever that was. (Or maybe she did, just to punch them in the face in case they tried anything funny but she doesn’t feel like that. She might be too disoriented for aiming anyways.)

Willow makes it to her feet, stumbling to the door and she’s about to lean and crash into that thanks to lack of balance when it clicks, swings open, and she ends up barreling straight into the unsuspecting individual on the other side.

It sends her toppling backwards, she almost hits the floor but something reaches out and steadies her by her shoulder. Panic arises, Willow flinches back and half raises a clenched fist before freezing in place at the (a tilted, blurry) sight that greeted her.

He’s in pajamas. With a lab coat on. And bunny slippers. It would have made her laugh if it wasn’t for the nausea threatening to heave her over in a few seconds. He has a five o’clock shadow, his eyes are dark with bags underneath them, they look tired (even more than they usually do) and Willow can smell coffee coming from somewhere, probably him.

Wilson lets go of her shoulder, tired eyes glancing down at her fist in muted interest as he sips from a mug. “Good morning.”

The brunette fumbles with her words for a moment, straightening her posture and blinking at him as she processed. “Good…morning?” She croaks. The scientists doesn’t reply, just giving her a quick look over. His gaze lingers on the mess of her hair (suddenly, Willow feels very self conscious about the state of her attire) and watches as the firestarter seems to freeze, a hiccup escaping through and he steps back into the hallway as she barrels past him and into the washroom.

Wilson sighs, shuts the door to his bedroom and runs a hand through the mess of his own hair. It was in absolute disarray, not as bad as Willow’s but he could certainly benefit from the use of a brush. (His hand runs over the bandage on his forehead and he almost winces at the touch.) He’s been a bit too busy for that, though. He’ll get to it as soon as he’s finished his notes (and makes sure his assistant doesn’t kneel over from alcohol poisoning)

Disoriented, cursing and clutching the stairway railing as if her life depended on it, Willow finds him on the bottom floor in the kitchen, pouring himself another cup of coffee. When he turns to see her enter, he points to something on the table. A plate with something on it, (she thinks it might be toast and eggs, but from this distance it just looks like a bunch of gooey goodness) and a glass of what she’s assuming to be water next to it. “Take a seat and try to eat something.”

Willow (barely) makes it to the kitchen table by herself, sighing in relief as she plops down in her chair and glowers down at the plate. She doesn’t look up, but the sound of a chair scraping against the floor tells her that Wilson has taken the seat across from her, papers shuffling and the quiet sip of his coffee. She stares blankly for a minute. “How did I uh…How did…I get here?”

“By car. I drove us.” His answer is quick. His voice sounds so exhausted, but he doesn’t sound rude. Willow shakes her head, and instantly regrets doing so when it sends a throb up her temple. “Not that..I um.” She leans against the table for support. She can’t bring herself to look at him. “That was…your room? Your room, right? How did I get there?”

Wilson doesn’t look up from his papers and takes another sip of coffee. “Take a guess.”

Her skin feels warm for some reason. Willow’s gaze darts up to him quickly before looking away. “Did we… _do_ anything?” She takes a deep breath. The scientist across from her glances up from his work. “…Did we do anything that’s um…I’m really sorry if I-”

The mug hits the table and Willow looks up to see him holding out a hand to her with a flushed face and a bit of a wide-eyed look. “No. No, nothing like that. Please, stop talking.” He’s got a little bit of a frown on his face but it’s accompanied by the slightest tint of pink. “Absolutely not.”

The firestarter pauses, then takes a deep breath. “Ah, okay.” She blinks back down at the plate. The scientist notes how she hasn’t even touched her fork yet. Her face is tinted a light shade of pink and he briefly wonders what would it take to make it go even brighter.

Wilson blinks, beats that thought down (It catches him by surprise. He’s too tired to think properly.) and musters up a smile.“What kind of gentleman do you take me to be?” He jests, falsifying some mock offense in his tone. Some light-heartedness would be nice. He doesn’t blame her for asking, at least. She still looks like she has questions, he doesn’t doubt it. Her memory must be horribly confused.

She blinks her eyes a lot. Possibly because the kitchen lights were stinging her eyes. Fire wouldn’t do that to her, but the fireplace is all the way in the living room and she fears what her body will crumple to if she tried to move from this seat. “A weird, nerdy one?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Willow wrinkles her nose at him, but a smile is itching on her face as well. It’s faint, her brain still feels like it’s been shaken and thrown to the floor but the room has stopped spinning (mostly) and she can kinda make out something white and rectangular across his forehead. “Why was I in your room, though? I have my own room.”

Wilson just shrugs. “It was out of commission at the moment.”

For a split second, Willow’s face falls into a flash of panic. (She didn’t set it on fire, did she? That’s totally something she would do. At least she thinks she would.) “Uh.”

He watches her open her mouth to speak again, but he’s decided to go ahead and answer before she repeats herself. “You threw up on your bed. The sheets are already washed and hung out on the drying line for you.”

She stares at him for a moment, (he almost thinks she’s going to throw up again) before groaning and resting her elbow on the table, using a hand to rest her head on. That little bit of memory was starting to resurface. “Oh, hell. I’m like…really sorry about that.” She rubs her temples and glowers down at the hardwood table. “I feel like death. My head is screaming and my stomach aches. I think I may have overdone it last night.” She sighs.

A glance upwards and Wilson is staring at her with a knowing look. Willow shrinks lower into the her seat. “Okay. So, I DID overdo it last night. I get it, I’m a lightweight. Yada yada. Don’t look at me like that.” She points at him, her mouth falling into a pout. “You had some to drink too, don’t pretend you’re innocent here.”

“And yet, I didn’t completely lose my senses.” He tilts his mug in her direction with a knowing grin. Willow’s bottom lip sticks out at him, mummering something he can’t quite hear but he’s sure it’s a half-assed retort as he leans across the table, pushes the plate a little bit further towards her and leans back. “Your food is getting cold.” He points out.

She peers down at it for a second at his comment (it actually is some toast and eggs, it seems) and frowns. She despises cold food. “I don’t think I can stomach this.”

“At least try to see if you can hold it down. Hangovers are much worse on empty stomachs.” Wilson refutes, neating his stack of papers (she can’t read whats on them from this distance. There’s little drawings on side facing her, though) and tilts his head towards the glass as well. “Scientifically proven.”

She looks like she’s going to protest again, and Wilson briefly believes she’s just going to have to learn the hard way and suffer for the next couple of hours but she takes the fork, scoops up a piece of egg and shoves it in her mouth with the hand-eye coordination so poor he thinks she’s about to stab herself in the cheek with it. The brunette chews for a minute, her face softens and he sighs in relief as she takes another bite.

“I guess I didn’t realize how starving I was.” Willow talks while she chews. He tries not to roll his eyes at the motion. (It makes the corner of his mouth tug upwards though. She looks loopy.)

He reads and she eats in silence for a few minutes. It’s a comfortable silence, all until Willow sets her utensils down on the empty plate and Wilson looks up from his research notes to see her giving him an odd look. “Did you sleep at all last night? You look horrible.”

Well, that was a bit rude. She doesn’t look all that peachy herself, given her state of disarray but Wilson doesn’t bother to mention it. Manners and all. “Of course I did. I slept in the lab.”

Willow gives him a frown. “So in other words, you didn’t sleep.”

“…I may have stayed up for a bit, yes.”

The woman face palms. Here he is, doting and scolding her for her actions when the man was regularly known for never taking care of himself properly in the first place. Sure, he has stayed up many nights to work in his lab, she’s well aware of his horrendous sleeping habits. But he usually gets a few hours, if any, before returning straight back to work (A glad thing, he admits, now that he has more time for science since he’s hired her) Though, with the way he’s been sipping on that coffee for a while now, and just the very look in his eyes tells her that he’s been up for quite sometime. Possibly hasn’t slept since their arrival home.

The thought makes her pause, and Willow tries to recall coming home last night. Wilson said he had driven, though she doesn’t remember getting into the car much less whatever happened the hour prior. She certainly doesn’t remember walking into the house on her own, (A memory arises, being carried and handled gentlemanly in her stupor, and a heat rises to her face in embarrassment.) Willow runs a hand down her face and inwardly curses her past self. “You’re a bit hypocritical.”

He had been reading through the pages during the pause in conversation, looking back up to her. “I’m a scientist. I can handle it.”

“You don’t look like you’re doing any better than I am right now.” She points out. Her response is half of a snort. “Perhaps you should look in the washroom mirror and rethink that statement.” He teases her.

The firestarter huffs at him. “So not gentlemanly.”

He sips from his mug, hiding a grin. “Just an observation.”

“Observation observation.” She sticks her tongue out at him. Her words a slurred, not as they were last night, but plagued with sleepiness and the slight tipsy of her hangover. (She might still be a bit inhibited, he thinks) “I ‘observe’ that your head looks like a bunch of…black spikiness. It’s poofy.” Kinda like black fire. “And it’s dumb.”

He raises a brow and glints at her. “Excellent choice of wording. But I think you need to rest your eyes. My hair is fantastic in any shape or form, thank you.” He hums. “I’d ask how you’d slept last night, but judging from that bedhead of yours I’ll assume that you were quite fine.”

A little tap on his knee, and Willow is using her bare feet to kick at his ankles. It doesn’t hurt, and she’s looking away from him. Wilson refrains a laugh. “No offense.”

With that, he nudges her ankle away from his own, getting up from his seat. (He’s had nothing but that coffee, she realizes. It’s just been his papers, his mug, and the empty plate in front of her.) Wilson stacks his papers and walks around to the other side of the table. Even now, slightly slunched over, he seems so tired. Willow sips at her water, trying to ignore the twinge of guilt in her chest. (She practically stole his bed, after all.)

Wilson raises the papers and lightly tapped the top of her head with them, bringing her to attention. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” He tells her, slippers turning to make his way out of the room. She calls out to him before he reaches the stairs, “Do you need help with any science stuff today?”

He turns to raise a brow at her. A flash of guilt is on her features. “I don’t think you’re in a state to help me do anything right now.”

Ah, there it is. The guilt has doubled. It feels wrong, she doesn’t like it, so the stubbornness in her pikes up and Willow thins her mouth into a line. He watches as she stands (struggles for a moment, but her posture straightens as a second of poor-balance) and glare at him, hands on her hips. “I’m perfectly capable, actually.”

Her eagerness is a first, though not unwelcome. “I hope you don’t plan on helping in your party dress, then.” He says. The brunette just brushes off her dress; it’s been wrinkled and ruffled up from her sleep. The top part of her collar has been unbuttoned. “You’re in pajamas though, why should it matter?”

“I’ve got a lab coat. You’ve got an apron, don’t you?”

She snickers at him. “Are the bunny slippers part of your lab gear too?”

To her surprise, Wilson deadpans and is the one to stick his tongue out at her. It’s a first, and he blinks for a moment afterwards, like he doesn’t know why he did that but brushes off the motion. Perhaps she’s rubbing off on him. “Yes, in fact. They’re very comfy. You’re just jealous.”

He can hear her hiccupy laughter as he abruptly turns and heads up the stairs, into the attic and glancing out onto the lab. The smile on his face (he forgot he was wearing one) drops to a neutral line. To work, then.

Wilson pulls his lab gloves from their sanitation rack and slips them on, not bothering to button up his coat (he wasn’t going to be working with any sort of harsh chemicals today anyways) and taking a seat at his desk. The hole was still there, but it’s been patched up (by himself, of course) so it really wasn’t an issue. Aside from being a reminder of his momentary distraction. He’s sure she’ll tease him about it later, if she’s stable enough to even make it up the stairs, that is.

Gloves secured on and setting the notes to the side, (He worked on them all night. They need to be revised, however.) Wilson opens the front drawer and pulls out a small black box. The same black box from the night prior, shut closed and tucked away until he sets it out on the desk and pries it open.

The heart, as black and slithering as he left it, sits in the box. He plucks it with one hand, holding it up to the desk-lamp light and picks up a pen with his free hand, writing notes.

It’s made out of…something. Not something he’s come across before in his studies, that’s before. If anything, whatever Maxwell called it was a clue as to it’s material, but the thought of labeling it as ‘Shadow Atrium’ (it’s laughable, almost) was something he just wasn’t up to. Regardless, he writes ‘Heart’ at the top of the page with no other description. It’s something.

Another glance at the heart. It’s pulsating, it always is, though its soft and hardly noticeable, like it’s barely alive (it wasn’t alive, Wilson was sure of it) but  there’s a small sound that it makes as it moves. A heartbeat, he’s sure. It takes him holding it up to his ear and tuning the rest of the world out, including not to listen to the sound of his own heartbeat in order to hear it. But he’s certain it’s making a noise. (It reminds him of the story he once read, of a tell-tale heart and a murder most foul. So he scribbles the name at the top of the page as well and decide that’s that.)

Running a gloved thumb over the surface of the thing provided no information on the texture or temperature of it. He could assume, but those results couldn’t be considered accurate and damn him if he didn’t get the exact correct numbers before putting this thing to a test. He had a feeling, an odd one, that this could only be used once and he would never be able to inspect and study it again.

Taking a deep breath, Wilson sets the heart down, removes his gloves and gently, carefully pokes the heart with his non-dominant hand. Nothing happens. He puts two fingers on it, no response. Slowly, he picks it up and lets the thing sit fully in his palm, held in place by his fingers and notes the feeling. It’s slimy, a little bit. But it’s also warm. And it’s a scientific wonder, undeniable fact that it’s beating as it presses against his skin with every pulse, gooey and seeping into moving against the scar on his palm.

A wide, maddening grin comes to his face. He makes for his pen before the door to the attic swings open and the scientist freezes.

Quickly, (and he’s not sure why he does,) he flips his hand over and curls it around the heart as he lays his arm out on the desk, sleeve covering his wrist and most of his palm. He leans back in his chair with one arm slung over the back end and glares at Willow as she takes a couple careful steps inside the lab, (her balance is a little better, it seems) hands wringing through her pigtails. “Knocking? We talked about this.”

She just looks at him with a smile, he can see her lighter in her other hand. “Forgot bout it. My bad.”

She approaches the him and desk, making a side comment about the patched up hole in the wood. She’s showered, wearing her uniform now, though her hair is still a bit damp he can assume she’s tried to towel dry it. The brunette stops behind his chair, pinching out the last of the water out of her bangs and giving him a look over. “What are ya up to?”

“Science things. As usual.” He tells her. She hums something under her breath, bringing the lighter up to her free hand and flicking it on. He watches with interest as she puts her other hand into the fire, covering her hands in flame. (The healing scar in his hand is covered by the heart, but he still feels it twinge at the sight) “Not that I don’t trust you, but don’t set my lab on fire.”

She glints at him in shock before seeing the smile on his face, and the shock fades into relief. Panic was there for a moment, and he briefly wonders why. “Haha, very funny. I’ve got this under control.” She smiles back. Her sentence is still a bit sloppy, there’s a droop in her eyes, but she seems to perk up a little as she takes the fiery hand and runs it through her pigtails, drying off the strands of hair.

A glance tells her that Wilson is starting to stare, and the scientist looks up from her hair to her gaze, gives her a shrug and continues watching. “What? It’s fascinating.” Well, at least he’s honest.

The blush on her face is from her (still) hangover, but it would have arrived again if it wasn’t there already. Willow run the water throughout the rest of her hair. It’s a soothing feeling, especially for her headache. While the world has stopped spinning and her vision was clearer, she still felt the effects of the night prior. (He was probably right. She needed to get some rest but the sheets for her bed weren’t dry yet and going back into his bedroom seemed…weird.)

As if to spite her, a spike of agony from her stomach comes up and Willow cursedly groans at the sudden nausea. No more vomiting, she hated that. “Do you want me to try it with your hair, too?” She jokes. Wilson hums at her and wags his finger. “I’ve already been without eyebrows once before. I’d rather not be hairless, as well.”

“You could just use that thingy that made it all grow back.”

“And be stuck with beard the length of you? I’d rather not.” Wilson corrects, a glint of playfulness in him. It’s a nice feeling, even with exhaustion tendering him to the edge. Willow laughs at him. “We can set your beard on fire too!”

The laugh is bubbly, a little hiccupy, (it reminds him of the balcony, and Wilson shifts uncomfortably in his spot. She seemed sober enough, though he did wish she would take some time to make sure of the fact.) Suddenly, her eyes flicker. Wilson seems to follow her gaze. Dejectedly, he pulls his hand a bit closer, she could see the black of the heart if she peeks through his fingers. (He wonders if she too can hear the sound that it makes.)

Willow does not make a comment on the heart, nor does she point out the hole in the desk. There’s a bandage on his forehead, something she was a bit too groggy to notice before but it’s there alright. He never mentioned it. She extinguishes her hands, pointing to his forehead. “What happened?”

Wilson raises a brow to her. “ _You_ happened.”

The firestarter furrows her brows and opens her mouth to question before…oh. Oh no. She did that, didn’t she? Hell, she _knew_ she had hit something! The memory was fuzzy and her head hurt to even think about it. (Nausea had returned full force now, lucky her) Had no idea it was him, had no idea what was going on really! God, she must seem like a huge doofus, getting drunk and taking his bed and vomiting everywhere. And what did she do for him? _Smacking him in the forehead_?!

Willow stares at him (or really, the bandage) in a dazed out, not-really-here gaze, and it makes Wilson the taddest, slightest bit nervous with how silent she’s gotten. Embarrassment is washing over her face in tides, she ends up bringing her hands to run them over her cheeks. “Oh, man…I am _so_ sorry, Wilson. I just-!”

The awkwardness is dispersed, and he laughs at her reaction. “It doesn’t hurt, it’s fine-”

Willow leans forwards onto the chair, using one hand to cup his jaw upwards and brushes her lips across the bandage. It doesn’t touch the skin of his forehead, but it causes him to tense up all the same. (The same mouth that touched his hand. The Atrium twitches in his grip and he tenses his fingers around it.) She pulls back and gives him a look of regret. “I’m sorry!”

Wilson looks at her blankly. Silence, then he mummers something low. “I think you’re still a tad bit tipsy.”

The look of embarrassment on her expression is replaced by offence and she puts a hand on her hip. He can’t tell if she’s actually faking it or not. “No? I’m perfectly fine now-”

She doesn’t even get the rest of the sentence out before he see’s her eyes go wide, her hands fly to her mouth and she’s running back down the stairs leaving his attic door to swing and creak at the force she’s rushed past it. Wilson stares at the spot she once stood in, raising a hand to briefly touch the bandage on his head, and give a small, tiny laugh. (There’s no joke. He doesn’t know whats so funny. Nervous? No, he’s too tired to be nervous.)

Taking a deep breath, Wilson turns away from the door and back to the heart, trying to let the tension seep from his shoulders and the thump in his chest to calm down, and stops. The scientist blinks. Something’s not right. Human hearts could beat quickly, he knows, but they couldn’t go that fast.

He turns his hand over, and the scientist freezes in horror.

The heart and all of its inky black cords were digging, painlessly into his skin. Seeping into his scar as easily as breaking the surface of water. It slinks around his fingers, (superior vena cava, a vein that leads directly to the heart. His mind is racing a thousand miles a minute.)

A quick pull of his sleeve, it’s running up his veins, black liquid trickling up his arms and he can’t feel it. Not the heart, not it’s beating. It’s no longer warm and the blackness is so cold and it’s seeping through his wrist and up his arm and inside his bones, trailing to his chest and the air seems so very hard to breath, the room suddenly seems too bright and the heartbeat is louder but it’s not moving and it’s not alive and he’s not-

Wilson lets go of the heart, clutching his hand and gasping for the air he didn’t know he wasn’t breathing in. He checks the skin. It’s clean. There’s nothing there. It’s just his fingers, all five of them, unharmed. The heart has been dropped unceremoniously back onto the desk. The heart beat has returned to it’s soft, almost dead rhythm.

A shuddering sigh of relief, Wilson sits for a moment and notes to himself that he really, really needs to get better sleeping habits. The exhaustion was really starting to toll on him mentally. Hallucinations are no joking matter.

The door behind him opens again, footsteps running towards him. He can hear Willow say something. “What’s going on? I heard a scream!” She sounds panicked. (Did he scream? He didn’t think he did.) He doesn’t have to turn to see her pause at the sight of the heart, he can hear her disgust in her voice at the comment for it. “Ewww, what _IS_ that?!”

Wilson gathers his thoughts, calms his heart rate (A funny little joke, to him) and slips his gloves back on without a word. He picks the heart up, standing from his seat and holds it out for her to see. She glances at it, to him, then back again. There’s a mix of curiosity and something else (fear, perhaps) on her face but he’s a bit too distracted to read into it.

“This is our experiment for today.” Wilson answers. He does not realize the maddening smile he has, but Willow does. He cocks his head over to the metal body across the room, eyeing it with a enthusiasm she has seen many times before. “We’re nearly done. Just need to add the last piece and see how this goes.”

Willow’s gaze flickers from heart to the body. Neither seem promising, though she says nothing, just reaching over to grab the scientist's forgotten coffee mug off his desk to try and drown out the taste in her mouth. It’s cold and bland, (black with two sugars, just how he likes it) “Well, I’m ready whenever you are.” She tells him. “What’s the plan?”

He seems confident enough now, (still tired, but confident) and turns to her to announce what she’s certain is a multiple step plan for his idea before stopping. Willow sips from the coffee mug expectantly, he blinks at her. “You have a knack for stealing people’s drinks, I see.” And their beds, but he doesn’t mention that part.

Willow shrugs, holds the mug back out to him, to which he frowns at, shakes  his head and mummers something underneath his breath about the woes of having an assistant.

She laughs at him and all seems well for the minute. The scientist places the black thing into the box, (She see’s papers on the desk, it’s labeled as a heart and it certainly looks like one) and he digs through the desk before pulling out a blue, faded piece of paper that looks older than the house itself.. A blueprint, actually. A title at the top of the page, a name with letters and numbers coupled together.

She’s expecting him to splay it out and give her a lecture on today’s experiment, but he rolls into a wad and brushes her pigtail off her shoulder with it instead. “I hope your sobered up now. We’ve got big things ahead of us.” He smiles. It’s a warmer smile this time, it makes her feel better. “You can still take the day off if you’re still feeling sick.”

The brunette waves him off, “I think I’m good now. Got it all out of my system.”

He makes a grab for his goggles, but not before sending a playful glance in her direction. “That’s good. The garden needs tending.”

“Oh. Oh no.” Willow dramatically swings a hand over her forehead and gives a sigh for her audience. “I think I feel faint.”

He laughs at her reaction and she joins in with him. “If you pass out again, I’m not carrying you this time.” He grins, strapping the goggles to his head and buttoning up his lab coat. He looked how he usually looks (Save for the bunny slippers and five o clock shadow he still dawned. She points it out and he merely pouts at her.)

Wilson pulls something out from another drawer, and she’s about to ask how does he keep so much junk in there when he holds it out to her. It takes her a moment, but looking down she recognizes the material. Black, with yellow lining. Lab gloves, though their much smaller than his size and obviously not for him.

“We’ll both need to be hands on for this one.” He tells her. (The pun is unintentional, but she giggles at it anyways.) “Just remember to take these off before sticking your hands anywhere near a fire. They’re heat resistant., but they’re not immune.”

She accepts them, muttering a ‘thank you’ and slips them on. They’re comfy, not comfy like fire is, and she hates the fact she’s not allowed to bring it near flame. Unless she can make this immune just like she can with her clothes, but she doubts he’ll let her try.

Wilson jumps a little when she elbows him in the side. Just a pinch. Willow holds her arms out with a grin. “We’re _matching_.”

“We’re prepared.” He corrects, batting her arm away with the rolled up blueprint. Her smile is contagious, but he’s already wearing one. Wilson walks over to the metal body, pining up the blue print above it’s head and stepping back to admire his handiwork.

The body’s chest cavity is pulled open. The scientist grins down at the lock box inside. Willow joins beside him, hands on her hips. He’s in the middle of deep thought before he feels a tiny tap on his foot, looking down to see her shoe on top of his slipper and her giving him a knowing look.

He tells her she’s just jealous, not to touch anything and runs downstairs to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's robot time


	10. Wx-78

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> robot time

Willow has finished up the last of his coffee when he returns upstairs five minutes later, with a change of proper shoes and a clean shaven face. His hair is only slightly combed through, but the rest of his attire looks a bit less disheveled now.

He eyes her sitting down his now-empty cup and throwing him a thumbs up as he enters the Lab, and misses the way she glances at the bandage still adorned on his forehead.

The bags underneath his eyes are still there, but a flip of his hand and they’re hidden underneath his goggles. (Goofy, clunky looking things that make him look a bit alien, she’s teased him about it before but he’s never minded.) There’s a bounce in his step as he approaches the metal body, and Willow watches with interest as he straightens his shoulders and holds the atrium up for show, as if preparing a speech.

“I do hope you’re paying attention. This could very well be the peak of my career!” He tells her, voice louder than usual. “I’ve been working on this for a very long time now. Years, in fact, and it’s time to finally test it. You’re about to witness the scientific miracle of the century!”

He sounds so excited, so much faith in his tone, so hopeful that Willow dims a little on the inside at the thought of how he would feel if this experiment of his didn’t follow through as planned. Not that she knew entirely what it was yet, sort of. But the blueprint pinned to the wall with a sketch similar to the body strapped against metal slate. Symbols and writings and notes on it she doesn’t quite understand (or truely have any interest in) but whatever they were, Wilson had strong faith in whatever was going to happen next.

Knowing him, it’s not out of the question that it could fail, but the giddy grin on his face prevents her from voicing anything. “So what am I gonna do here, huh? Sit here and look pretty?” She pokes at him, gesturing to the set up. “Looks like you’ve got everything all ready.”

“Not quite, no, not quite.” He moves past her to the body, placing himself in front where the chest cavity sat open. “Lend a hand, will you? I’m about to perform heart surgery.”

She blinks at him before taking a position besides him. “Was that a pun?”

Her only answer is a unchanging grin, but she’s certain he may have winked from underneath his goggles. “Grab those cords here-Ah, do make sure your gloves are on tightly. Good. Grab those and hold them outwards, they need to be attached to this.”

Wilson sets the black-thing inside of the cavity. A perfect fit, though she doesn’t really remember what he named it, or what name he possibly would have given it. Though from here it looks translucent and…pusling? Barely, or perhaps she’s still a bit hungover. The brunette adverts her eyes and focuses on pulling out the thin, rust-colored wires from inside.

They’re smooth and frail looking, she eyes the ends of them pensivly. “They look like…electrically connectors?”

“They are! Well, in a sense. Electricity is not the only thing they’re going to be conducting.” He tells her. The proximity of them is close enough that if she moved to her left just an inch, their shoulders would be touching. Wilson doesn’t seem to notice. “Hand me one. That one, yes. Watch closely.”

And she does, following the movement of his fingers as he so-eperteclty connecting the end of the wires to sockets the pulsing heart possesed, only moving when he asked for another piece. Eventually it was all connected, and Wilson bade her to take a step back as he himself reached for a cable. A thick, roped one, like the kind they use in factories for heavy duty machinery.

Willow squints at it. “What’s that for?”

“A defibrillator of a sort. It’s not for humans though, mind you. I fashioned it myself.” He answers her, not looking in her direction as his attention is solely focused on hooking it up to the heart with a clasp. Willow follows the cord’s end upwards to a contraption with buttons and switches galore, something she’s saw the since the first entrance into the lab. He’s never used it with her here before. “Huh.”

She looks back to Wilson just as he steps back from the body, a wide, prideful smile on his face and his hands on his hips. His gloves have a trace of that strange, black substance on them. “There we are. Set and ready for testing. I dare say I’ve done a fine procedure.” He boasts as he turns to her. “Wouldn’t you think so?”

He hasn’t slept at all, she can tell by the edge in his voice. But there’s something else off about him she can’t place. “What is this supposed to be, exactly?”

“Asking all the right questions today!” The smile he has is so bright. “A scientific triumph, if all things goes to plan. I’m going to manufacture life itself.”

A pause, and Willow cocks and eyebrow at him. “Life?”

A enthusiastic nod. “Yes.”

“As in…life? Like how we’re alive? Like, the creation of a conscious, living, sentient being?”

“Yes.”

“If you wanted to do that, you could of just had a baby.”

She doesn’t need to see through the googles to know he’s taken aback and doesn’t stop a giggle from breaking through when a bit of a stammer comes out with his next sentence. “Don’t compare my years of hard work and research to something as simple as-” He waves an arm around mindlessly. “-conceiving a child!”

There’s a slight irritation on his face when she laughs at him. “It’s got the same result. You’re all about results, right?”

“On the contrary, it’s not the same.” He interrupts her with a thwap on the nose. She wants to remark on how ungentlemanly that was but he continues speaking before she can. “Think about it. A machine capable of making decisions by itself, of free will and sentient thought. Of course, it would need beginner instructions but imagine the possibilities of-”

A tiny clank noise cuts him off and the both of them turn to see the larger cord disconnected from the heart. The scientist huffs, bends down and picks it up, holding the end firmly back in place and not removing his hand. When he turns back around, clasp still in place, Willow is staring at him. “You’ll get electrocuted.”

“The gloves will prevent that.” His reassurance does not falter the skepticism in her eyes, but his smile is not deterred. “No promises, though.”

His smile seems _off_. His jest does not make her feel any better. She doesn’t know whether the sudden anxiety is coming from the experiment, his lack of self-preservation, or the caffeine she’s stolen from him only minutes prior. Perhaps a combination of all three.

The assistant shifts in her spot with uncertainty. Wilson doesn’t say anything, not at first, but there’s a impatience in his stance when he opens her mouth to question him again. “What made you want to…uh, ‘create life’ and all that.” She looks to the side, to the large cylinder where the cord led to. There’s a lever-switch on the right side of it. “Sounds really…ambitious.”

The scientist is wearing an expression that she can’t decipher. “I have my reasons. Now, would you kindly-” He nods his head in the direction of the switch. “Throw the switch.”

Her hands ache for the lighter and it’s fire, but she refrains, she wouldn’t even be able to feel the heat on her fingers anyways, not with the gloves. Besides, Wilson was looking at her expectantly, waiting. Excited, clearly, and while it was a nice sight to see him out of the down-rut he’s been in, there’s a feeling she has in the pit of her stomach that something is about to go wrong.

Regardless, he’s happy and Willow does what she is asked. Hands wrapped around the lever, she turns to him. “You really think this is gonna work?”

He turns to her, and tilts his head. “Do you?”

A tiny, weird part of her is hoping that it doesn’t. “Yeah! You’ve worked so hard.”

“We both have!” He beams. There’s a slight laugh in his voice. “Throw the switch!”

A hesitation takes over her hand. Willow glances back towards the metal body, the black heart that resides in it and watches it pulse faintly for a second. It looks dead, especially from this distance. Not the kind of dead you’d find in a carcass, but like something that was never mean’t to be alive.

It didn’t look artificial (that’s all she can assume it is, she’s not a scientist but she’s pretty sure organic hearts aren’t pitch black and beat on their own accord.) The wires hooked up to it from all angles and Wilson’s shadow covering it as he loomed over did not help the image that was forming in her mind right now.

Wilson’s smile falters when Willow hesitates. “I don’t know if-”

“ _Do it!_ ”

His voice startles her enough that she jumps, wrapping around the lever again and yanking it as hard as she could, heart and mind racing. The heart from across the room sounds like it’s suddenly doing the same.

A spark. Many sparks, she turns in the milliseconds she wasn’t watching and Wilson has stumbled back from his spot in front of the body with lighting speed as literal lightning flashed from inside the body. Outside the body. Bouncing in and out of it’s chest in rapid colors and lights. The entire damn thing was metal! Nearly half of the room had items that were metal! What the hell kind of safety was that-

An explosion. A spark big enough to be considers a small one flew out and fell against Wilson’s lab coat, but the man is either too distracted or too elated to tell because it singes against the white and leaves a burn mark that he’s too engrossed in his laughter to notice or even feel. “See? It’s working! It’s actually working!”

The sparks that land on her don’t burn as Willow runs between to put herself between him and the body. “You mean, you MEAN’T for this to happen-?!”

She shrieks a little when his hands come around on her shoulders, turning her to face the creation with a jolt. “To be quite honest with you, Willow, science is just a bunch of carefully planned mistakes!”

She doesn’t know what he means by that, but she’s not getting the chance to dwell on it.

A retching sound bouncing off the walls of the lab and something foul looking, formless and strange has begun to seep off of the heart. It raced faster than one could keep up with, black tendrils seeping up the wires and rushing fast through the body without restraint. The light has gone colder, the lighting has become black. There’s no light in it’s eyes.

There’s a acute sense of fear Willow has not felt in a long time as the metal in it’s face begins to morph, almost as if it’s twitching, and Wilson’s laughter behind her can only be described as insane. 

Then, as quickly as it started, it over.

The lighting dies, the heart goes silent and there’s nothing left but some sort of black goop seeping out of it’s eyes, the chest cavity and the seams that connect the metal pieces together. Whatever was supposed to happen, didn’t happen.

Wilson’s laughter dies to a cold silence.

She only registers the hands on her shoulders leaving when she takes a deep breath for air she didn’t realize she wasn’t breathing it. The room is silent now, the wild scene from before has been reduced to stillness and tension. Even the floor creaking beneath his footsteps as he approached the body was loud in their ears, blaring out against all the sort of thoughts running through their minds. Willow felt relief, almost. There’s no telling what Wilson was thinking.

Though, she gets an idea when he stops, tears off his goggles and throws them to the floor with a force strong enough to crack one of the lenses. (An impressive feat, considering those were supposed to be resistant to nearly any puncture.

The firestarter stands in her spot. Her eyes dart to the tiny burn marks on his coat, on the floor and the spots on the walls where the sparks have flown up to. She opens her mouth to say something, anything really, just to break the silence but he pushes past her without any regards and walks straight to his desk.

His back is turned to her now, fishing out some notes and papers and skimming through them quickly before tossing them carelessly to the floor. “Where did I go wrong?”

Wilson’s voice is low and barely a mummer, but she hears it. She wants to comfort him somehow. But how? “Maybe it’s just-”

“No. No, I did something wrong. I’ve made a mistake somewhere. I had this set perfectly. Everything was working perfectly. Everything DID work perfectly! I spent years making sure that it would and it did and yet it _still_ didn’t give me what I wanted.” Another crash and he has thrown a subject tray to the floor. Willow takes a step backwards. “Wilson-”

“He _lied_ to me!” The scientist throws his hands up in to his hair, pulling at the strands and running them down his face with gritted teeth. “He said this was the last piece I needed, and he lied to me! To my face. I know it’s not my fault. I did everything _right_. I did. I know it!”

She hasn’t got a clue who he’s talking about. The brunette goes to speak but remains quiet. A glance to the machine, the experimenter, whatever it was supposed to be and she see’s the slivers of black trailing back up inside into the crevices. “Wilson.”

“That bastard knew exactly what he was giving me. Gave me damn defect. And for what, to call me a failure a thousand times more? Or did I make a mistake somewhere?” He’s pacing around the room now, seemly ranting to no one. He’s too lost in his own grief to register his assistant call his name out for a third time. “I was a fool to trust anything that poor excuse of a fraud would ever give me.”

Willow calls out again, lower than before. Her voice isn’t reaching him. Amber eyes turn to stare at the happens of the body. There’s a slight twing of fear, a slight touch of curiosity. Whatever it is, it fuels her to step closer. The scientist behind her has returned to shuffling through his discarded notes in search for an answer he’s not allowed to have.

The opening on the chassis is still opening, she can see the heart plain as day. It’s not beating, it doesn’t even look real. Almost two-dimensional, as if someone took an ink pen and drew it there right before her eyes, though, there are lines of black trailing upwards into the inner workings of the body she can’t see. A little higher up and she can see the black seeping back into the eyes-

Wait. Did it just… _Blink_?

“Wilson!”

The scientist whips around, shoulders tense and scalp bleeding a little from the scratching to glare at her with wild, sharp eyes. “What-?!”

He stops. There’s an orange tinted arm wrapped around her shoulders and it’s pulling her down to the floor, the body is trying to pry itself off of the metal slab and a slur of static is coming from the orifice that could be called a mouth. It’s feet clunk heavy against the floor and Willow struggles underneath it’s weight and it’s pulling her down and oh his assistant is being pulled down-

Willow feels a sharp tug on her collar as she’s yanked backwards, Wilson holding her behind him as the thing-whatever it is, she never heard him give it a name-, falls to the floor with a loud clunk. It’s eyes having flickering lights in them, ridged motions of it’s limbs and the sound of gears whirring seem to emit faintly off of it. It scans the room, struggling to gather it’s bearings.

Wilson is stunned in silence, whether happy shock or not Willow can’t tell, but she pushes at him to let go of her. “Wait! Stop, it’s just…I think…” She stammers as she tries to escape, and eventually his attention is too preoccupied to stop her.

She stumbles away and back to the metal body’s side. “I think it just needs some help standing up!”

Wilson blinks. Once, twice, a few times actually before a maddening smile comes to his face. His breathe quickens. “It’s _alive_.”

The brunette shoots him a look from the corner of her eye, hesitating before holding out a hand to the creature. It doesn’t even look at her before taking it, and the grip is a lot harder, firmer than she would have liked, as if it was afraid she’d be dragged away again.

The scientist’s face is no longer frustrated but back to the excitement that he had on previously, if only amplified. “It’s alive. It’s bloody alive! I’ve done it, I’ve created artificial life! I’ve manufactured a living being! I’m a genius! I’m an absolute, bloody fucking genius-!”

“Yeah, I already knew that!” Willow snaps. The stress may be getting to her. She struggles to help it stand, and it wobbles on it’s own two legs. The way it looks at the floor is as if it doesn’t realize it’s real. She gasps when it almost tilts over again. “Aren’t you supposed to be a gentleman too?”

Maybe he doesn’t hear her, maybe he doesn’t care, because he’s laughing and bellowing out his joy at the top of his lungs, lost in his euphoria to even acknowledge what she said. It’s only until she’s certain the creature is deemed stable on it’s feet and quickly steps away that she finds herself swept up (again) and spun around in the air as if she weighed nothing.

Wilson has his grip locked around her waist and his body pressed to hers as he swings her around in a fit of triumph. His voice is so happy, the blue of his eyes is so bright, even his accent was making it’self more pronounced as he rambled that she’d have butterflies in her stomach if it weren’t for the fact that he was crushing her a bit.“We’ve done it! We’ve bloody gone and done it and all of them were wrong! This is brilliant! This is a mir-”

A thwap on his forehead, right where the bandage was, and Wilson hisses in pain and nearly drops her. Well, he does, but Willow falls back on remaining arm while the other hand swings up to feel for the spot where she’s bruised him. “What was that for?!”

She’s got an eunxplainable expression, (there’s a red to her face, that’s the only thing he can note so far) and quickly falls back away. “I panicked! I’m sorry!”

“…am I becoming your personal punching bag?”

“You just grabbed me! What else was I supposed to do?”

A flash of emotion comes across his face and Wilson suddenly looks stricken, then calmer. He looks to himself strangely, like he hadn’t realized his own actions. Or forgotten them. Regardless, he looks for a lost to say. The scientist glances around the room, as if reanalyzing his surroundings before clearing his throat. “I-”

For what seems like the 50th time in the hour, he is interrupted, but only by a laugh that sounds oddly like it’s being filtered through a monotonous radio. “HIT HIM AGAIN. IT WAS FUNNY.”

Scientist and assistant both slowly turn to see the metal body upright and attentive, and blink in shock. Whatever expressions they wore must have been hilarious because it wasted no time in letting them know that both their faces were dumb and pathetic and made of inferior looking flesh.

It’s a full minute before either one of them comes back to their senses again, and both of their reactions are wildly different. Willow’s included. “You made it _talk_?”

“I made it to where it can do a lot of things.” The scientist steps forward, cautious but she can feel the curiosity in his step. The pride and the excitement still hasn’t left. A twitch in his grin as he circles the experiment. “I made it to where it should be no different than a human being.”

“I AM SUPERIOR TO HUMANS AND SHOULD BE ADDRESSED AS SUCH.” It corrects him rather harshly, yet doesn’t move from it’s spot. Willow wonders if it’s afraid of taking it’s first steps yet. “YOUR ATTEMPT AT REPLICATING HUMANITY IS A FAILURE AND YOU SHOULD BE ELIMINATED FOR IT.”

Wilson’s smile does not falter. “I think I did a fantastic job, actually. Besides the whole arrogance part, but I can fix that problem somewhere. Probably.”

The creature curses some words he doesn’t know where it learned (he certainly didn’t program that in there, that’s for sure) at him and threatens him but the man decides to care about it later. Revel in the success of years of hard work and dedication. Work out the little kinks later, now was a time for celebration and science.

A glance over to his assistant. Willow has made herself much more comfortable on the other side of the room, gloves off and running her fingers through the flame of her lighter. He hadn’t even noticed. The creature’s gaze follows to the firestarter as well, and looks to the fire-touching ability with the same interest Wilson saw in himself. Though, it says nothing.

Willow looks at him. “So…does it have a name?”

“A name?” He repeats, and the thing looks to him expectantly. “Oh, right. Names. Of course, my apologies.”

Almost instinctively, Wilson removes one of his gloves, straightens his lab coat and offers a smile (of course, the one he already had didn’t suffice) and a hand outstretched to it. It stares at his hand with wary conflict.

“Wilson P. Higgsbury, at your service.” He introduces himself with as much glee as he had when he was young. “And this-”

“I ALREADY KNOW WHO YOU ARE, SCIENTIST.” Black eyes glare at him. It does not take his hand, instead, deciding to peer over to the woman a few feet away. “WHO ARE YOU?”

She dips the tip of her finger into the flame before answering. “I’m Willow.”

It makes an odd sound, glances to Wilson then back to her again. A hand comes up and scratches at the chassis, metal fingers scraping against where the Shadow Atrium would be with a grating metal-on-metal noise. For the first time, it shows a flicker of emotion. Nervousness.

It’s gaze flicks down to the hand Wilson has outstretched to it, and Wilson feels suddenly self-conscious of the blackened scar hidden beneath the glove.

“HELLO, WILLOW.” There’s a hesitance in how it speaks. “WHO AM I?”

A pause in the room, Willow glances towards Wilson as does the creature for an answer, and the scientist only retracts his hand, folds his arms behind his back before glancing over at the blue prints still pinned up against the wall (slight burn marks on them now, in tiny places) before turning back and gives a polite, introductory stance.

“Wx-78.” He grins. “That is your title.”

* * *

So. The thing was a robot. And it was alive. Not the squishy, breathing, organic type of alive (To which, they’ve already expressed their hatred for all things organic) but alive enough to have conscious thought.

Wilson, obviously, is ecstatic. He doesn’t leave the lab for hours. Days, it could be considered a week before he actually comes down to rest in his own bed for once instead of falling asleep at his work desk just to wake up again to run more test. Willow is certain he’d purposely forgo eating if he had the option to but she’s made it very clear that she wasn’t going to be bringing him any food up to the lab and that he’s going to have to come down and get it himself. (Unless he forgets, then she might be a little more lenient. He seems more forgetful now, doesn’t even scold her when she comes in without knocking.)

The robot, Wx-78  is their name, is as cold and calculating as the metal body they reside in. Except whenever something miserable happens nearby, then it seems amused. Wilson has already jotted this detail in these notes of his. She asks him once if he mean’t for them to come out like that, and he gives her a answer vague and unintelligent. She’s certain he didn’t, not with the look he gets when the robot occasionally rambles about ‘destroying humanity’ but he chalks it up to faulty wiring and says that all the little bugs can be fixed.

It’s an odd thing to wake up to sometimes, the sound of them talking. It takes some getting used to, especially when the robot’s voice is so deadpan and flat, it’s laughter was as even as it’s threats, as if no emotion resided in it. She’s certain that it does, but Wilson assures her (with the full confidence of a man who’s just had the best experience of his life) that it’s nothing to worry about.

He’s immediately comfortable with their presence, despite the worrying signs of the feeling not being mutual. A few times, only, has she heard him scold them for some off-handed comment or failure to comply, but nothing too serious.

They stay in the lab, for the most part. They have trouble walking on their own, only able to take a few steps before the weight in their upper body threatens to crumple them to the floor. It doesn’t stop them from their consistent threats though, and she’s not sure if they’re empty. There’s a small comfort, however, in it’s apparent fault that it can only stay powered on for a certain amount of time before randomly shutting down.

Willow thinks back to the robot answering a few of Wilson’s questions before stuttering, making a soft ‘bzz’ noise before it powered off. The scientist panicked, if only for a moment, before hooking the robot back up to the main power source, (What he deemed the ‘defibrillator’ before, but now he wanted to give it another name) and Wx-78 immediately back on to finish the last half of the answer they were giving.

Willow is not sure how to feel about it.

Not like she had in say in the matter, of course. I mean, this is her job. Wilson was her boss, and this was his house. Whatever he says, goes. She could complain about it, sure. But then she remembers how happy he is, how excited when the robot first came to life and the activeness he’s been since then, and she can’t bring herself to say a word. Not that she’s uncomfortable, she’s just…weary. And good at hiding it. He hasn’t noticed a thing.

The robot has. “CAN YOU ALWAYS DO THAT?”

Wilson is tinkering with something in their arm, the limb laid out on a counter in the lab. Willow has situated herself a safe distance away, leaning against the work desk and playing with the lighter’s fire. “Do what?”

“THAT.” They point with their free hand. “YOU ARE TOUCHING THE FIRE.”

“Oh.” The flame slinks up the skin of her palm, a bright, red color engulfing it. She can hear Wilson mummer something about ‘being careful near the paperwork’ as he tinkered with the limb. “Yeah. I do this a lot.”

The robot glares at her. The metal in their face can mold into expressions, she’s seen it before. But the eyes are nearly unreadable, just black holes that rarely show a flicker of light. They only ever look animated when they speak of humanity’s demise. “HUMANS CANNOT WITHSTAND FIRE. THEY BURN.”

“She doesn’t. It’s a wonder, isn’t it?” Wilson doesn’t look up from what he’s doing, focused on precision. “She’s special.”

Wx-78 takes a moment to process before turning to Willow. “SO YOU’RE NOT HUMAN?” A nod of their head. “RESPECTABLE.”

“Hey! I’m just as human as the next guy. Don’t get the wrong idea.” She huffs, and frankly ignores the look Wilson gives her, (he removes his hands from the inner workings of the arm before hand. The robot can feel pain apparently, and he did not want to risk Wx-78 lashing out due to a slip of his hand.) “I just really like fire, ok?”

“FIRE IS A EXTREMELY DESTRUCTIVE ELEMENT.” The robot retorts. Willow almost flinches at it’s deadpan tone. For a moment, she thinks that it tries to smile when she refrains.

“It’s also the most useful.” The scientist finishes the last few touches, taking the plate that secures the elbow to the forearm and screwing them back together. “A lot of science couldn’t be done without it, you know.”

Willow looks down to her hand and extinguishes it. She was not used to this.

Having Wilson know about her ‘talent’ was risky enough, it took a while for her to be fully comfortable with the fact, even now it bit at her anxiety here and there when she least expected it. It’s enough to have one person know your secret, now she had two. Only, Wilson was an unconventional scientist, and the other was a robot.

Wx-78 wasn’t allowed outside the lab yet, much less the outside world, and she highly doubts that her past would be the highest priority on everyone’s mind when there’s a walking tin can in the neighborhood.

Still, the interest taken in her ability by the robot is not alike the interest taken by Wilson himself. It’s…friendly, almost. It could even be considered praise if she wanted to call it that. Oddly so, though she’s not going to straight up ask for their reasoning why.

Wilson makes another comment she doesn’t quite hear, only enough to let her know it’s about her time here and immunity to fire. The tone he says it in is full of wonder, and Wx-78 swivels their head to stare at him as he talks. The scientist goes quiet, raises a brow as if question their look, but the robot doesn’t bring forth any conversation.

There’s an odd synchronicity in the way they converse. She wonders for a moment if there’s an inside joke between them she’s not aware of.

She breaks from her musings only when Wilson stands from his spot, allows Wx-78 to retract their limb and pulls off the gloves to throw them to their respected rack.

A bandage is wrapped around one of his hands. Willow spies the white of the cloth right before he pulls off his lab coat and slips on his more casual gloves, a pair she’s noted he’s quite fond of. He’s taken off the bandage for his head a few days ago, the skin having been healed.“I’m going into town today to meet someone. I trust the two of you will be alright on your own?”

She makes a noise of surprise. She’d ask about the hand, but his sentence catches her off guard. “Wait. You’re not leaving me here by myself, are you?”

“Yes? I don’t trust Wx-78 here by themselves.” He trails off, spinning on his heel to give the robot a half-apologetic nod. “No offense.”

“OFFENSE TAKEN.”

Willow buts in. “You’re leaving me alone with them? I don’t want to baby sit that..that thing? What if they turn on me? Don’t you know how heavy they are? They’ve been talking about the destruction of humanity for a full week!”

Wilson opens his mouth as if he had expected her protest and prepared an answer already, but his face softens at the sight of her nervousness and he finds himself suddenly reluctant to leave. Science needed answers though.

Both watch him as he travels behind Wx-78, bringing up a cord that was hooked to the back of their neck leading to the power source. (Willow honestly could not believe how he was able to afford any of this still.) He holds it up for emphasis. “It’s only a few feet long. You can stay over there if you like, or do business elsewhere in the house. But as long as you stay out of reach, you should be fine.”

Wx-78 yells an obvious insult to him, but Willow ignores it for the sake of squinting at his wording. “This was not in my job description.”

“There’s a lot of things that aren’t in your job description.” He drops the cord and gives a sheepish look. “Favor a friend?”

She wrinkles her nose at him, but relents. “Fine. Bring me back something from town?”

“Which would be?”

“Surprise me.”

“BOTH OF YOU ARE DISGUSTING AND DESERVE TO STARVE.”

Her pigtails practically fly as she whips her head back to glare at the robot with fire in her gaze. Oddly enough, they’re able to match that same intensity. Wilson resists running a hand down his face, taking the moment to gather a stack of paper work, stuffing it in a leather suit bag and swinging it over his shoulder. “I’ll be gone for an hour. Maybe two, at most.”

Wilson pauses with half a foot out the door before making a roundabout to point at Wx-78. His expression has fallen neutral. “Be a gentleman. Gentle-robot. Whichever. I expect you to be nice to her.”

The firestarter is about to say something in her own defense when Wx-78 pipes up over her. “I WAS NOT BUILT TO BE ‘NICE’”

A frown. “Could you at least pretend?”

“I’M INCAPABLE OF PRETENDING.” They glare at him, before a twitch of their fingers brings them to scratch at their chassis again. “I THINK.”

There’s an uncertainty in that turn of phrase, so Wilson takes it as final. He gives a farewell nod to her, (more like an apologetic look, she notes) and hurries down the stairs. Willow listens for the door downstairs to shut, only after Wilson is long gone does she realize that she did not ask about his hand, nor who he was going to meet in town. A curiosity stitched itself in her mind.

Wx-78 is rubbing their newly adjusted arm, glancing up at her from their spot on the floor. Hardly a moment of silence passes between them. “ENTERTAIN ME.”

Willow is already making her way out of the lab. “Hell no.”

“I WANT TO SEE THE FIRE TRICK.” They call out to her, though their voice is natural loud with as deadpan as it is. It shouldn’t have stopped her, but it does, and Willow compares their request to something Wilson might say. “SHOW ME.”

She needed to make friends with this thing. If they were going to live together, she needed to at least be on good terms with it. It may not even be meaning to be as hostile as it sounded. (She doubted that, you could never be too careful) But one thing is for sure, she’s worked way too damn long for a place here to be driven out by a talking trash can.

She can’t say that she’s not curious about Wx-78 either. Just not as excitable as Wilson was. Cautious. Maybe she could find out why they hate humanity so much.

She holds up a hand. “Sure, whatever. Give me five seconds.”

Willow quickly runs down the stairs. If she’s going to make friends, she’s going to need another to help her with it. So she grabs him, runs back up the stairs and into the lab, and plops herself down right in front of Wx-78, just far enough to scoot away if anything happened. (and she’s certain they’re refraining from calling her a coward for doing so)

They stare at what she’s holding. Willow holds Bernie a little bit closer for her own nerves. The lighter is settled besides her, out of their reach and well within hers. Even Wilson indifferent to the stuffed animal. Wx-78 couldn’t be that bad if they liked Bernie, right? Right?

“IT’S SO CUDDLY!”

Right. So the robot liked teddy bears.


	11. Of Information and Reputation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do yall ever like 'uogh' ya know?
> 
> Anyways, lots of plot talkin going on in this one. Next chapter is gonna be some sweet, sweet soft Willowson moments but uh, for now....mad lad.

The walk to Warly’s cafe is uneventful and lonesome. Not that Wilson minded, be sure. It gives him plenty of time to think to himself, and he has plenty of things to think about.

Wx-78’s arrival is one of the best-no, _the_ best achievement he’s accomplished as a scientist. After years of research and hard-work, being told it’s impossible and nearly believing it himself after failure time and time again, he’s gone and done something unbelievable. A magnificent creation, the absolute scientific peak of the century.

A living being. (Well, as ‘living’ as a functioning metal doll could possibly get.) created by his hand, in his very own lab. It’s been a week or so since their first day in this world, and Wilson still gets a exhilarating rush when he remembers the flickers of lights sparking to life in his creation. Perhaps he had been too hopeful, he can’t imagine how he would be feeling if the whole thing had blown up in his face. (Literally.)

He absentmindedly fiddles with his shirt collar as he rounds the corner, cafe coming into sight. The memory of the day is not without the face of his assistant, a mixture of fear and confusion on her face. Though, she seemed to be just as elated as he was to find the experiment a success. (He hasn’t apologized exactly, but she hasn’t brought up his behavior since the incident. He’ll take that she’s just as excited.)

The notes in his book bag, accompanied by blueprints and pens alike weigh down on his shoulder. Important research, confidential stuff he’s never really shown anyone before. Save for his assistant a few times, but she was never really interested in the true workings of what he wrote. He should be thankful for that, at least. Explaining things take too much time, time that should be used for science. It’s so much better to show the world what he could do, through experimentation and success.

He’s faced failure before, he’s no stranger to it. But this? This was the beginning of something new. Something big. Bending the rules of life itself was not an easy task and he has plenty of work to do.

An woman completely immune to the effects of fire _and_ the creation of a sentient robot? His discoveries so far this year have been enlightening.

There is no such thing as science ‘fiction’, only science that Wilson hasn’t fully understood and conquered yet. Though, now that his project has reached a certain point, he supposes it’s time to discuss the details with someone who’s mind is just as complicated as his own. Even if they were a stuck-up bloke.

Speaking of said bloke, Wilson catches sight of the man sitting in a familiar spot, thumbing through a book as he waited patiently. The older gentleman looks up from his readings at the sound of the cafe door opening, as does the rest of the majority of the guests there, but is the only person to offer Wilson a smile. A grinny smile, but a smile none the less, a better reaction than what the rest of the looks were being thrown at him.

“Punctual as usual, Pal?” Maxwell gestures to the seat across from him, shutting his book and stashing it away somewhere Wilson’s eyes cannot follow. “And alone, to boot.”

The scientist ignores the remark, settling in his seat to rummage through the contents of his bag. “Let’s make this quick. I don’t plan on staying here for very long. I’m sure you’re aware I’m a very busy man with very important business-”

“Oh, I’m certain.” Maxwell interrupts him with a tone that’s a mix of disbelief and mockery. Wilson wasn’t sure what else he even expected of him, but it’s still a touch on his nerves. Regardless, the magician leans forwards with his elbows on the table, whether or not he was faking his interest, the scientist could not tell and was not going to spend the time to dwell on.

His fingers tap against the table. “Your telegram seemed quite urgent, but you look fine and dandy to me. Is there a specific reason why you’ve ripped me away from my rehearsal? Or is this just an attempt to bore me with your endless stream of bad ideas?”

“If you truly thought I hold nothing but bad ideas, you wouldn’t have come, so you can save the theatrics for your ‘magic shows’ and listen for once.” Wilson thumbs through the bag, searching for a specific piece. He finds it, pulling it out in a swift motion and flattening against the table top. Maxwell brings his elbows, seemly to recoil at the sudden intrusion. “Oh, and what’s this? Another failed dream?”

“The research of a success, actually.” Wilson spits. He doesn’t look up at him, he was not in the mood to tolerate any more of Maxwell’s mockery than what was completely necessary. Instead, using the salt and pepper shakers to pin down the corners of the paper, rotating it so the older gentleman could see the writings and drawings clearly.

Maxwell blinks down in confusion, and Wilson waves a hand to catch his attention again. “Blueprints. Notes, plans on what you’ve given me. I conducted an experiment with the heart, and while it didn’t exactly run very smoothly the experiment was a success.”

At the mention of said heart, the magician’s eyes peak upwards, the wrinkles in his forehead growing deeper as he eyed the scientist with a wary look. A sudden change in demeanor, but Wilson was certain he was listening now. “The heart? The one I gave you?”

The dark haired man resists rolling his eyes. “Yes, that heart. What other would I be talking about? Or did you somehow develop a case of Alzheimer in the mere seconds we’ve been speaking?”

Usually, an equally sharp jab would be his response, but Maxwell seems to completely ignore it. Grey eyes roam over the blueprint, a hand coming forward to trace over the writings in the corners. There’s an intensity to his look, either of confusion or determination, Wilson isn’t sure, but Maxwell is not the type to feign that sort of emotion.

“How, exactly, did you use it?” He speaks up. “Perhaps it’s your cursed handwriting, but I can’t make sense of anything that you’ve written here except for the bits and pieces, and even then it sounds as if it was written by a mad man.”

The very phrase seems to peak a few of the other guest’s interest, some looking over at their table, unaware that their eaves dropping was less than subtle. Wilson feels his jaw go tense, letting out frustrated sigh through his nose. “Your name calling is not appreciated.”

Hand reaching forward, he points to the diagrams scribbled on the page, finger following along the drawing slow enough he hopes the old man could properly see it. “This project, this one here, I’ve been working on it for a long time. I’ve melded together specific types of tin and metal, a kind that’s actually flexible without losing it’s solidity. It acts like a casing for the exoskeleton inside, where I’ve also strung wires. Think of it as a nervous system, as you will. The gears here function as joints and keep the chemical engine running. Not resistant to water in the slightest, but that part is a work in progress.”

He looks up, and Maxwell is staring at him with a deadpan look. “Get to the point.”

“I built a robot.” Wilson finishes, a frown on his face as he leans back in his seat. “With the help of the heart you gave me, it came to life. It talks, it walks, and it has it’s own opinions. There’s still some kinks that need to be worked out, but that’s what I’m here to discuss.”

His voice is low, and for good reason with so many people out and about. But this place was as good as any to talk about such a topic. He was not going to risk Maxwell coming to his place of residence and inquiring about said robot, or the lab for the matter, (and science forbid he let this shady man put any sort of ideas in his assistant’s head) Even if someone overheard, it’s not unlikely they’ll dismiss the conversation as topic of a mad man and old geezer. Lots of secrets stay secret because they’re unbelievable to the general population.

Maxwell, however, stares at him in disbelief.

That’s fine, let the old man’s realization sink it. Let him realize how much of a fool he was to ever doubt Wilson and the extents of his mind, his capability of doing something great. A sense of pride fills the scientist as he watches the magician’s eyes dart from the blueprint back to the younger man himself, seemly at lost for words. There’s no stopping the smirk that comes across Wilson’s face, nor the ego in his stance as he straightens his shoulders and crosses his arms, finding amusement in the shocked look of the gentleman before him.

It’s a long few moments before Maxwell speaks again, but when he does, there is no amusement in his voice. “You’re an idiot.”

Wilson face falls. “I’m not lying-”

Maxwell cuts him off with a raised hand. “No, I didn’t call you a liar. I called you an _idiot._ ” He hisses. His voice is lower now, almost a near whisper, as if all eyes were watching their very table. It’s not far from the truth. “Out of all the experiments you’ve come up with in the years I’ve known you, this is by far the most irresponsible thing you have ever done. Do you have any idea, any idea in the slightest how bad a _mistake_ you have made?”

“You’re the one who gave me the heart, and now you’re telling me it was all a mistake?” Wilson does not hold back his irritation, though his voice raised a bit in volume. “I think you’re just jealous that I’ve done something miraculous, bigger than you could ever even dream of accomplishing. You knew when you gave me that heart that I was going to use it and yet you still thought this would fail-”

“I _thought_ you were going to dissect it. Plant it. Burn it. Destroy the thing, chop it up into little pieces and put it in a beaker, or god forbid, actually _study_ the damn thing. But this?” Maxwell jabs his finger into blueprint, right over where Wx-78’s face would be. “This was not what I was expecting you to use it on. If I had known exactly what you would have done with it, I would have never given it to you.”

“But it worked.” The scientist insists. He leans forwards towards him, shoulders tense and mind tenser. The looks that are being sent towards their table are being ignore completely. “Think about it. Can you imagine what sort of power that thing held to bring an inanimate object to life? The power, the science that it can tell us-?”

“You are playing with magic you don’t and will never understand.” Maxwell glares at him. Immediately, Wilson begins his usual spiel of ‘magic doesn’t exists’ but the sentences don’t even begin to tumble out much before he’s interrupted again. “That heart was not a blank organ for you to just install anywhere and expect it to come without consequence.”

“Consequence how?”

“You really don’t think things ahead before you do them, do you?” The older man sneers, and for a moment, his eyes dart to the surrounding around around them, voicing going hush. “If I had known exactly what you planned to do, I would have given you a different one. From what you told me you needed, I had thought this was the right one. But you withholding information vital to me caused this mistake, and if I had known any better I wouldn’t have given you the wrong one.”

“The _wrong_ one.” Wilson repeats. There’s anger twisted in his features. “What do you mean you gave me the wrong one?”

The look Maxwell gives him is not a proud one, nor a friendly one, but one of urgency and importance. Maybe it’s their hushed speaking, or the way the man looks so out of characteristically nervous. “Tell me, Higgsbury. Do you really think that hearts, artificial or not, are supposed to look as black and sinister as the one I gave you?”

There’s a slight twitch in Wilson’s eye. “I don’t see why it’s appearance matters as long as it’s effective.”

“Wouldn’t a heart full of life look so much more inviting? Did that thing really look alive to you? Or did it just look like another tool, a piece of a puzzle that you shove into a robot without any sort of second thought of the consequences, that could follow, lost in your pursuit of knowledge you lose yourself to it’s pull?” Maxwell streams words of poetry that rivals the many books Wilson once read, but his sentences sound full of scolding and oddly enough, panic.

But Wilson, too, is a man of many words. “I gave you an idea of what I needed and you provided the tool. It’s not my fault you’re incompetent to give me the wrong one when I very clearly described to you what I needed.”

“Obviously, you didn’t.” He snaps.

The scientist is silent. The magician’s glare does not let up. “That heart is dangerous. Your robot will be too, now that it’s become infected with the magic that’s in it. I hope you had the right sense of mind not to expose it to anything else it could possibly have the same effect on.”

Wilson’s fidget, fingers tapping against the table. “Of course I wouldn’t. I’m smart enough to be careful with my work.”

“You’re a mad idiot.” Maxwell leans back with a deep sigh, running a wrinkled hand down a tense face. “And _I’m_ an idiot for allowing this to happen. Consider what little faith I had in you revoked until you fix this situation.”

Wilson’s hands curl into a fists. His mood was ruined, for sure, anger and frustration seemly to seep from his pores, but alas, he is a gentleman, and a public place like this is not a ideal place to be seen exploding upon an older man (and one of well-respected status, to boot)

So he takes a deep breathe, rolls the blueprint back into the bag and curls his hands together on the table. “I can assure you with full confidence that what I’m doing is completely safe. I’m taking all the necessary precautions needed.”

“You know damn well I don’t believe a word of that, not with your prior history.” The magician crosses his arms, his tone gone tired from exertion. “You’re not the type to care about your own well being when it comes to things  you’re fixated with.”

“No science would ever get done without taking risks. I’d say you should know that, but I wouldn’t expect someone who plays with cards to understand.” The scientist rebukes. “You’re sudden interest in my well being is suspicious, at the least.”

As if holding back a sour laugh, Maxwell rolls his eyes with an exasperated look. “Believe it or not, Higgsbury, but you have people who would be, dare I say it? Sad, if something were to happen to you.” His lips turn upwards into a line. Mockery is on his face.“I know that can be hard to believe for you. Don’t worry, take your time. Let it soak in.”

Wilson’s expression is unreadable. “I don’t see what that has to do with my work.”

“It has plenty to do with your work, considering you’ve nearly died because of it before.” Maxwell points a thin finger at him, and the scientist wrinkles his nose at it. “My niece would be disheartened if she knew you had passed, as much as I disapprove. You wouldn’t do that to her again, would you? I’m sure Charlie would get rather upset.” The tone he has makes it sound as if he’s speaking to a child. It irks him. “I’m sure your assistant would be rather devastated.”

At the mention, Wilson feel his throat close up. “This all sounds suspiciously like a threat.”

“It’s a request.” Maxwell ends, his demeanor dropping to his usual pallor. “Don’t do anything stupid. You’ve been out more. Social, even. It’s refreshing how…optimistic you’ve been lately.”

“I just had the best scientific accomplishment of the century. Of course I’d be optimistic.” Wilson waves his hand, brushing the comment off. “There’s no difference in how I act now versus how I acted prior. You’re delusional.”

“I watched you at the Gala, you know. With her.” Maxwell pauses just for a moment, just long enough to see Wilson blink at him in surprise. “You seemed happy. That’s not something happens often.”

The palms of his hands underneath his gloves were clammy, and the scientist resits the urge to look away from the old man’s judgmental stare. An awkward cough, and Wilson fiddles with the fabric of his sleeve. “She’s nice.” He clears his throat. “Willow is a good assistant.”

“I don’t suppose she has any sort of opinion on your work, considering she’d in the line of fire if something did go wrong, does she?” Maxwell makes the comment casual, just a honest question, but he can see the slightest flinch in the scientist at his words. Slightest, barely noticeable. But it’s a new nerve he has touched.

The cafe has gone slightly hushed. Wilson’s tapping on the table top has ceased. He briefly, only briefly, considered telling him that she was currently left alone with the robot, but decides against it. “She’s perfectly safe, not that any of that is your business, anyways. She can take care of herself.”

There’s a group of people too close for comfort for eavesdropping, bits and pieces of their conversation floating over to their booth. He can hear little tid-bits, gossip of the Gala and someone being called a vile name, nothing that the scientist could be interested in, but too close.

Unluckily for him, Maxwell does not seem to care about keeping his voice low anymore, snide and teasing coming full force in his tone. “Pardon me, I’m just wondering since the two of you seem very close. It certainly appeared that way what with your arms wrapped around each other in a waltz.”

Wilson’s face twists up in a scrunch and his curls his hand into a ball. In one swift motion, he throws the strap of the bag over his shoulder, readying to leave. “Listen, as much as I enjoy your lovely commentary, Maxwell, I’d appreciated it if you’d stick your big nose somewhere else other than my business-”

“Maxwell?”

Both men pause, heads turning to the sudden new voice. The group from before, three people standing at attention, though one closer to the table than the rest. It’s a woman, with dark hair curled up and secured by a headband across her forehead. Her overalls and scuffed gloves give the tell-tell signs of a factory worker, and the other two appearance's seem to match.

Whoever she is, she’s looking at Maxwell with a squint, hands on her hips and eyeing him up and down. Said man gives her a look. “Yes, that’s me. Do I know you? Perhaps you’ve seen me at one of my shows.”

The woman does not bring a polite smile to her face, but doesn’t appear to be hostile either. Just simply neutral.“So you’re ‘Maxy’.”

The magician blinks, taken aback, and his mouth drops a little in surprise. (The nickname sounds familiar, Wilson thinks, like he’s heard it before. Though he’s not sure from where.)

Regardless, this really wasn’t anything for him. Standing up from his seat, Wilson doubly checks that the bag, blueprints and notes and all, are secured inside before excusing himself and moving around the table, leaving the magician and the group to converse amongst themselves-

A hand comes down upon his shoulder, stopping him from going any further. Blue eyes blink at the fingers on his jacket, trailing up the arm to meet it’s owner. One of the other factory workers, a no name with a scruffy beard and a squarish face, frowns down at him. “Aren’t ya the mad lad that lives in that old hut in the middle of the forest.”

Wilson’s frown deepens. (It wasn’t a hut! It was a house. An old, ugly one in need of repairs but it defiantly was not a hut!) Still, as a gentleman should be, he musters up a polite smile and outstretches a hand. “I don’t live in a hut. My name is Wilson P. Higgsbury, nice to meet you-”

“I know who you are.” The man interrupts, and he swears the a sneer underneath his breath of his. From this distance, Wilson can smell the slightest smell of liquor, and inwardly sighs. “Yeah, I know who you are. Yer that fella that does all that weird shit in the forest all the time. Fukin’ bonkers.”

This was exhausting. He really needed to get home and check on Willow. He was starting to regret leaving her alone with Wx-78, and suddenly with good reason. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong idea-”

“Wrong idea, huh?” The man’s hand on his shoulder tenses, Wilson can feel the fingers digging into his skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the woman reach out to her co-worker’s arm in protest, but she’s shoved off. “We all know you’re a loony. You think everybody’s dumber than you? We all heard ya, little bits and pieces of ‘hearts’ and shit.” A fake laugh. “You sellin’ organs on the black market or something?”

Anger and discomfort is prevalent in Wilson’s body language. He was really not in the mood for this today. Normally? Brush it off, these kinds of interactions are just unfortunate enough to happen to him. But today? Not in the mood. “I’m not. Please, excuse me.”

He makes move to walk away, simply brush the mans hand off his shoulder and be on his way home. But a force stronger than him grabs a hold of the strap of his bag, yanking him backwards and forcing him to face the man again. “Hey! Don’t play dumb with me!”

Maxwell has stood from his seat, looking as if to approach, Warly stands behind the counter looking as if he wanted to interfere but too afraid to do so. The third man, one not unlike his counterpart, is just as entertained as the rest of the cafe that has stopped to watch them. “We know you’ve up to something! We saw you, yeah, at that party. Walkin out that drunk gal like no one would notice.”

Oh, no. “You’ve got it all wrong-”

The front of his shirt collar is yanked upwards. Someone to the side, Wilson hears Maxwell say something but whatever is was is drowned out by the accusations being thrown at him. “Didja kill her? Dijda? Or is she one of your sick experiments you’ve got stashed away on that property of yours?!”

A small cheer resounds from the room. A bad situation was turning dire. A twist, a turn but the scientist finds himself unable to break from the man’s grip, teeth gritting and fingers curling into a fist in case of self defense. (There’s also a anger running through him at the moment that’s he’s trying desperately not to show. Reputation bad enough as it was, he didn’t need to make it any worse by showing aggression. Warranted or not.)

“Put him down! He ain’t do nothing to her!” A voice, a woman’s. He recognizes it as the woman from earlier. “My sister already told me the details, she’s her friend. She’s fine.”

The man hoisting Wilson up doesn’t look back to her, his face only hardens. “Doesn’t excuse all the otha’ shit he’s been up to-”

“I’ve done nothing to you.” Wilson’s voice is calm. Collected. He doesn’t feel that way. “Let me go, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“So you can run off and plot?” The second man laughs, and it’s to the scientist’s horror that a good portion of the cafe follows along with him. “You know what? I don’t think I believe a word of that. I think he’s got all sorts of shitty secrets stashed away in that big head of yours, huh?” A jab to his back, a finger digging in his spine. “Whattya working on, scientist? Made any new ‘discoveries’, lately?”

It is difficult not to bare one’s teeth at their faces. Was he afraid of getting hit? Probably, it wouldn’t be a first. Was he used to this? By this point, he might as well be. Was he getting very tired of it? Certainly. “Nothing you could even hope to understand.”

The stranger’s face twists and he retches his collar upwards to where his feet stumble forwards. “You basta-!”

“One more second of this and I’m calling the cops!” A voice unheard of before sounds out, and eyes all around turn to look at the owner. Warly looks a bit nervous with all the attention, but stands his ground. “Out of my cafe, now. We’ll be having none of that in here.”

There’s a pause, a heavy one. A harsh whisper trails through the crowd as the men stand ridged and Wilson in pose. A second passes and he’s let go, stumbling backwards with a grunt. The men look less than pleased, probably just as hostile as Wilson felt, but the gentleman doesn’t say anything sour nor does he motion to do so as he fixes his collar and clears his throat.

Maxwell is beside him as he adjusts the strap on his bag, though speaking to the woman from before. “Maxwell, right? I hope you’re the right Max, anyways.” She rubs a hand over her face, sighing before giving them both an apologetic look. “Name’s Winona. I’m Charlie’s older sister. Dunno if she’s told you about me, but I’ve heard a bunch about you.”

Maxwell looks oddly uncomfortable, and it’s uncertain if it’s due to meeting his assistant's family or due to the situation prior. “Likewise. I’m sorry this is how we’ve met.”

Winona spares a glance towards Wilson, if only to ignore the magician’s discomfort. “And I uh, heard about you too. You doing alright there? You seem kinda twitchy.”

There’s an ache in his hand and he feels as if he can do nothing but curl it into a fist, hoping that the irritation in his mood doesn’t seep into his greeting. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. Please excuse me.”

He’s maybe three, perhaps two steps away from being out the door when he overhears the chatter of the cafe that for some reason refused to be tuned out. The man from before question Winona something and she answers them truthfully.

The one that had hoisted him up by the collar glares into his back, a sneer in his voice, making sure it’s loud enough that the scientist could hear him as would the rest of the room. “So you’re telling me that girl was fine leaving with em’?”

Winona nods.“Yeah, they live together, I think.”

A hearty laugh. “Yeah? So she’s just a desperate whore!”

Maxwell watches Wilson abruptly stop and spin on his heel back towards the men, the magician pinching the bridge of his nose as he watches the scientist throw all sense of a gentleman out the window and into the gutter. Reputation be damned.

* * *

The first thing Wx-78 does on their own is trip down the stairs.

Gracefully, trip down the stairs, they correct. But Willow laughing too hard at seeing them tumble (and the awful clunk, clunk, clunk sound of their body hitting each step, accompanied by the very deadpan “OW” at the end was hilarious.) so it’s not until she’s caught her breath for a minute that she runs down after them, looking at them sprawled out on the floor, face down and silent.

“Oh, my god. Oh my god. Are you-” Laughter invades her voice, a pitch higher than usual. “Are you, like, okay? Can you get up?”

The robot doesn’t respond immediately, but a second passes and a twitch runs through their body. “DECENT SUCCESSFUL.”

Willow snorts. “I don’t think I’d call that successful.”

“I WANTED TO GET TO THE BOTTOM FLOOR SO NOW I AM BOTTOM FLOOR.”

Sure, spiraling down nearly two flights of stairs when you weigh hell-knows what wasn’t exactly conventional, but hey? It worked didn’t it? Willow shakes her head, an amused grin on her face as she leans down on her knees, reaching out to pat the robot on the back it’s chassis. A small pap is all it takes for the automation to pipe up, head turning to glare at her close proximity. “Need some help?”

“I DO NOT.” A pause. They try to lift their legs. Whatever balance they have installed is not functionally properly, and it falls back down again. “…I DEMAND YOU ASSIST ME, MINION.”

Willow wrinkles her nose. “You can’t ‘demand’ me to do anything.”

Wx-78 flails for a moment on the ground, and it’s nearly enough to have Willow laughing again if she wasn’t starting to get worried about their inability to stand. “YOU ARE ASSISTANT AND YOU WILL ASSIST ME.”

“Well, I’m not your assistant, thank you very much. But I’ll help you. Cause I’m nice.” Putting two hands underneath the ‘arms’ of the robot, Willow heaves. They’re heavy, super heavy, but she’s strong enough to at least lift the torso upwards and allow them some leverage to try and stand on their own, wobbly legs clunking downwards until they’re standing upright.

Wx plants their feet in place and takes off, wandering into the living room without so much as a thank you. Willow follows suit, Bernie clutched to her side. “Hey! A ‘your welcome’ is polite you know,” She starts off, watching as the robot scanned the immediate area. “And don’t tell Wilson I let you down here. He’ll probably get mad about it or something.”

A wobble here, a stumble there. Their walking has improved greatly from their first activation, but their attitude has not. Though, Willow can see he input on the back of their body where the power cord would connect to, said wire was left upstairs. She’d have to convince them to go back up to the attic somehow before shutdown, there was no way she was gonna be able to lug a unpowered robot up those steps by herself.

Optical scan the room, landing on dusty furniture and floorboard, they briefly fall over Willow herself, or really, the teddy bear in her gasps before settling on the fireplace situated in the wall. Willow doesn’t know whether to gasp or chuckle as the robot frankly waddles over to it, fire still lit in place and plopping on the ground, abiet closer than how a normal living being would prefer. “FIRE TRICK. NOW.”

Frowning at their impatience, she joins them on the floor. “That’s not asking nicely.”

“THAT’S BECAUSE I’M NOT ASKING.” They jab a finger in her direction, swiveling towards her chest and then to the flames. Low and dying, Willow instinctively picks up a piece of firewood from the pile and tosses it in, watching as the fire builds up higher. The robot’s insistence does not falter. “DO THE THING. THE FIRE THING. DO IT NOW.”

There’s a feeling rushing up to Willow’s face, and the sheepish nervousness she’s felt only a few times before comes up again. It’s better masked with annoyance. “So impolite!”

“SHOW ME THE IMMUNITY.”

Her mouth thins into a line. Wilson never talked to her that way before. Even though, it was nice, to have someone interested in the ability. Even if they were a jerk about it. That doesn’t take away from the fact that it was supposed to be a secret, and while she can’t really keep this one from the robot, it still felt personal. Like something only she can know. And Wilson, only because he promised. She could trust him.

Could she trust this robot? It waits impatiently for her. Did she even have a choice? She really needed to make friends with this thing. For her own sake, and if not hers, than her boss’s.

Crying and locking herself away in her room seemed oh so dramatic now compared to the bluntness of Wx-78’s behavior. There’s no words of encouragement, no soft promises, just a demand to show off. It was odd. It’s a completely different experience.

Willow plays with Bernie’s ears, looking to the fire and the robot. She’ll have to get over that anxiety, soon enough. “Okay, are you ready to watch?”

“JUST DO IT ALREADY.”

Wx is rude, but she ignores it. Reaching out her free hand (and keeping the other securely on Bernie, just so the robot doesn’t get any ideas) her fingers touch the tips of the fire, flames dragging up her hand and trailing upwards on her arm. Warm, nice, easing her mind of the worries she has on her plate. She could forget about the other presence in the room if she really wanted to, but said other has a very loud voice box and the demanding attitude of a toddler. “GOOD. NOW SET THE HOUSE ON FIRE.”

Willow retracts her arm, extinguishing the skin and sends a shocked glare in their direction. “No! The hell is wrong with you?”

Wx does not seemed bothered by her outburst. If anything, the small twitch of the metal in their face shows amusement. “FIRE IS A GOOD DESTRUCTIVE ELEMENT, CAPABLE OF CAUSING MASS LOSS AND TURMOIL. BURNING THIS HOUSE DOWN WOULD BE A GOOD START.”

The brunette huffs. “I live here!”

“YOU ARE IMMUNE.”

“You live here too!”

“METAL DOES NOT BURN. I THINK.”

A scoff. “Wilson lives here! He’d have no home!”

“…AND WHAT ABOUT IT.”

The brunette rolls her eyes, blowing a raspberry out of her mouth. She misses how the robot eyes the action and tries to mimic it to the best of their ability. Obviously, they fail, and a spur of gears whirring comes out instead. The sound almost makes her snort.

Wilson has really outdone himself this time. It was almost as if she was speaking to a sentient toy at times instead of a evil robot. (Yes, evil, as they have so rightfully repeated time and time again.) “I’m starting to think that the only features he installed in you is being rude and hating human beings.”

The robot seems to ignore her outbursts, instead preferring to mimic her previous motions and sticking their arm _directly into the fire_.

A second passes, Wx turns to a gaping Willow. “I AM IN IMMENSE PAIN.”

Immediately, the brunette swings out and grabs their wrist, bringing out the hand from the flames and extinguishing any cinders left over in a swift yet panicked motion. She mutters curses under her breathe, brushing off the soot from their fingers. There’s surprise in the back of her mind, she thinks, how long they’re letting her hold it for the mere seconds she needs to, but it diminishes as soon as their metal polish is clean and Wx yanks their arm back again.

The robot turns their hand, holding it up and observing it, scanning it carefully. A look bends the metal in their face, something along the lines of dissatisfaction. Willow blows out a huff of air. “You wouldn’t happen to have a self-preservation feature installed, would you? Or even some common sense?”

Wx-78’s head tilts, as if processing her sentence before responding. “I HAVE MANY FEATURES INSTALLED.”

She gives them a curious look. “Like what?”

“I HAVE NO IDEA. I JUST KNOW THAT THEY’RE INSTALLED.” A pause, the sound of gears turning in thought. Wx is silent as they sit and Willow has learned to be patient as they search through their files, shifting through various bits of the code and other mechanisms that make up their ‘mind’. She wants to ask about occasionally leak that comes from their eye sockets from the week previous, black and slimy, but the question feels too personal. She’ll just assume it’s oil or something.

Wx’s head straightens and their eyes glower at her. “I HAVE FOUND INSTRUCTIONS.”

The firestarter peaks up in interest. Wilson didn’t leave her any manual or anything aside from a firm instruction to keep them to the power station (but that’s already thrown out the window, wasn’t it?) It looks like she’ll just have to get her information direction from the source. “What do you mean instructions? Like…features for stuff? Is there is anything there that can make you stop being such a jerk?”

“I AM EVIL AND THAT IS NOT A ERROR.” They correct her rather harshly. “I HAVE A COPY OF INSTRUCTIONS FOR BASIC FUNCTION. EXAMPLES INCLUDING: BLUEPRINTS. CHEMICAL FORMULAS. SCHEDULES LISTS. TASTE BUD PREFERENCES. HAIRSTYLE PREFER-”

“Whoa, whoa whoa wait.” Willow waves her hands up to cut them off short, their voice box cutting off like a radio that was just unplugged. “Why would you need instructions for that stuff? You don’t even have hair.”

“CORRECTION NOTED.”

The brunette furrows her brows together, holding Bernie up a little and giving them an odd look. Confusion mixed with a touch of amusement. “So Wilson just programmed all of that into you for no reason?” Supposedly, to make them seem more alive? Whatever the reason, it didn’t work.

“I HAVE A COPY OF DATA FOR BASIC INSTRUCTION, INCLUDING NECESSARY INFORMATION AS WELL AS UNNECESSARY INFORMATION.” Wx’s hand comes up, the one previously in the fire to scratch at the mid-section of their chassis. If there was a way for a robot to fidget, this was close enough. “I BUILD MY OWN DATABASE ON TOP OF THE COPY. THE FILE IS MINE TO CHANGE.”

Willow has a lot of questions. Like, a lot of questions. All of this was some scientific mumbo-jumbo she didn’t understand and frankly didn’t ask for, but it peaked her interest, even though it was frustrating. Her fingers pluck the ears of her teddy in thought, ignoring the look Wx-78 gives the action as she ponders over her next question. “What’s in the copy?”

“INFORMATION.” Is the blunt response she is given. Wx’s face is unreadable, tone deadpan and not giving away much else. The brunette sighs, placing her elbow on her knee and resting her face in the palm of her hand and blowing a piece of hair out of her face. She watches as the robot stares at the action, scanning, then mimicking it. It looks awkward and obviously ridged, but they’re trying. She wonders why they do.

“Where did the copy come from?” She asks.

A pause. “THE SCIENTIST.”

“So….he DID program it you, right?” She raises a brow. “It’s okay to tell me. I won’t let him know you-”

“NO.” The answer is firm, and Willow recoils her invasive questioning when the automation appears to be slightly irritated with her. “HE DID NOT.”

She squints at them. “Okay…so, where did that come from?”

“WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW.”

Her mouth drops into a frown, brows furrowing as the robot laughs (yes, laughs, a monotone, emotionless sound that irks her nerves nonetheless) as her reaction, finding entertainment in her frustration. Willow scrunches up her face and jabs a finger at their chassis, readying a comeback when a sound breaks both of their concentrations.

There’s a knock at the door.

Robot and assistant alike freeze, eyes turning to the door, then each other. Wilson has a key, there would be no need to knock.

A second knock, a more impatient one. Willow if all but any grabs Wx-78 by the shoulder, hoisting them upwards with all the strength she could muster in a panic (and frankly ignoring their protests as she did so) before she practically shoves them towards the stair case, Bernie in tow (a sacrifice that must be made) and whispering harshly under her breath. “ _Go!_ ”

In all the times Wx could hesitate, it would be now. “BUT-”

She pushes them to the staircase, pointing upwards. “GO! Hurry!”

They give her a look just before the third knock on the door resounds out before running up the stairs, clutching onto the railing for the only support they have. A loud clunk noise is made with every step, which really isn’t inconspicuous at all, and Willow listens the the tell-tell sign of them reaching the second floor before turning around, straightening her skirt and taking a deep breath. Robot? What robot? Never heard of such a thing.

A rush to the door, and Willow yanks it open with as friendly as a face she could muster. It drops immediately.

The knocker stops, lowers the hand used for the door and gives her a polite, if not exhausted nod of the head. Adjusting the arm swung around his neck so the man hung up by him doesn’t fall to the ground, she takes in the sight of a bloodied, beaten Wilson before her.

The scientist looks up in a daze with his good eye, barely managing a sheepish smile before Maxwell uses his free hand to gesture to absolute mess of beside him. “Delivery.”


	12. Rest & Recovery, Mandrake and Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter where Wilson falls down a lot. Feels pain, then doesn't, then does. Experiments with medicine and gets a little bit drugged up. Feelings are complicated. Wx is a jerk that knows too much. Willow is just trying to juggle all of these things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys this is long. Like, 17k+ word count long. I WAS going to chop the chapter in half and just make it in two separate chapters and post them at different times but uhh. I thought. What if I. DIDNT. Do that. You know? Too much stuff happens and I wanted Wilson's recovery period to be kept to one chapter 
> 
> So anyways I hope you guys are in for a long ride.

He looks _horrible_.

There’s blood dripping from his from his eye, from his nose, even from a cut over his bottom lip. The skin of his knuckles are frayed and red, one of which seems to be swelling already in a tell-tell sign of a something fractured. One arm slung over Maxwell, the other half dangling, but half reaching to grasp the front of his shirt. Even his collar has been ripped.

Willow doesn’t realize she’s been staring slack jawed until she hears a impatient cough. “May we come in?”

Maxwell breaks her out of her daze, shaking her head and quickly moving to the side. Her mouth opens and closes for a moment, watching the taller gentleman lug the scientist through the front door, shutting it with his foot and plopping him down in the nearest spot he could find; the couch.

Wilson grunts as he sinks into the cushions, hissing at the sharp sting of something-not-quite right in his chest as the jolt goes through him. Maxwell steps back, giving him some well-needed room. Some of the blood from him is on his suit jacket, and Willow inwardly cringes when he tries to brush something red off, pauses, and drops his hand in a sigh at the realization it’s stained.

If it was not for the room’s silent moment, she wouldn’t have noticed Wilson’s breathing was slightly labored. Eventually, the shock fades, and worry and confusion hit full force. “What the _hell_ happened!?”

Wilson looks like he’s about to answer, but Maxwell beats him to the punch. “There was an, uh…incident.”

“An accident?” She stares at him.

“No, not quite.” Magician turns to scientist, who’s too busy trying to sit up straight without straining the puncturing feeling in his ribs to be fully present in the conversation. “There was a bit of a scuffle-”

“That is not-” A hiss of pain. Wilson speaks up for once. “NOT the word I would use to describe what had happened.”

“A scuffle.” She scoffs. Willow lets the statement fill the room and watches as both men turn to face her with blank, wide-eyed faces. Her hands open and close, shoulders tense and voice heavy with bewilderment. She turns to face Wilson fully, eyes narrowed. “You got into a _fight_?”

Wilson looks to her, to Maxwell, then back to her again. “Not all of it'.”

“Then who’s blood is it?” She gestures to him, the lot of him slumped up on the sofa. The scientist would protest but he’s too weak and too exhausted to come back with a remark, slouching only further as her voice raises a pitch. “You’re a bloody mess! Literally!”

He’s certain she’s picked up that phrasing from him, but he’ll make note of the comment later. The pain in his body was much too distracting to be able to operate at 100% unfortunately, the stinging in the bones of his hands and the ache in his face. Wilson brings up a hand to gingerly touch the skin around his eye, flinching as fingertips run across the cut that digs through the eyelid and ruined his sight for the evening.

Another hand comes in sight, and he follows it to his assistant. She reaches out, touches the cloth of his shoulder and without thinking, brings her fingertips over the blood on his cheek and the lines dripping down his skin. Wilson swipes her hand away without so much as a word, and her fingertips are tainted a slight red.

Willow scans the injuries for a moment, amber darting from each detail to the next before spinning to face Maxwell (who looked awkward and ready to leave, and she didn’t really blame him.) “What happened?” She repeats.

The older gentleman straightens his posture at her question, (and ignores the look Wilson gives him from across the room at her apparent attention shift, asking him instead of the scientist himself) before answering. “You’re really asking me?”

“Does he look like he’s in any shape to be interrogated right now?” Again, she throws her hand up towards the scientist, and the man does a solemn frown at the gesture. “He looks like he got hit by a car! Or a bus. Or, I don’t know, mauled by a bunch of hounds. And you’re telling me he got into a fight?”

Wilson takes a deep breath and tries to beat down the feeling of his lungs not expanding the way that they should. “I’m not unresponsive, you know. I’m right here.”

“You don’t fight!” She exclaims, turning to him and back to the older man again. “He doesn’t fight! He couldn’t even hurt a fly!” Her voice is loud. She does not miss the slight scoff that Maxwell has at her sentence and it does not deter her from edging it on further. “This is WILSON we’re talking about here.”

She hears a groan and a mutter from somewhere behind her, but ignores the injured man in favor of watching the magician’s little fidgets, arms crossed in defense and glaring at the way Max shuffles his feet and points them towards the door.

“Well, he _did_ , if you can wrap your head around the concept. Unless you consider the concept of his arrest much more believable. Or even the loony house, if it came down to it.” The man runs a hand down his face, expression drooping with a look that seemed far from entertained. Wrinkled eyes turn from assistant to scientist and Maxwell gives him a hardened look. “You’re lucky to have friends in high places.”

“I wouldn’t consider calling you a-” He speaks too quickly and too harshly, Wilson curls into himself a little at the sudden pain, eyes scrunching and teeth gritted. “A friend. Though your help, despite my better judgement, is appreciated.”

“I’ll make note of that when I’m washing your blood stains out of my suit jacket.” The older man snaps back. “I could have just let them have you, you know.”

Willow gawks at the both of them. “Have who? What now??”

His body is demanding to rest and begging him to at least lie still for a few seconds, but the irritation the older man gives him causes Wilson to lean forwards in agitation anyways. “You wouldn’t dare. You’ve gone soft-hearted.”

He’s given a sour look. “I’d say the same for you but it appears your temper has a new trigger. Though I’m sure it means the same thing.”

Wilson nearly grimaces. “I don’t have a temper. I just showed them logic and reason.”

“If those are the names of your fists, I’m going to be disappointed.”

Willow looks back and forth in the argument, her voice going unheard between the two. “Um, hello? Will the both of you stop being so cryptic?”

Wilson looks to her briefly, eyes softening just for a moment before another snide remark comes from Maxwell’s side and he returns with a hardened glare. (Some offhanded jab about making poor Warly have to clean up after his mess, but that’s a detail she’ll note for later.) This feels like that day in the cafe all over again. Frustration spikes, she feels like she could pull her pigtails from their bands.

In fact, she almost does. Fingers tangle through her hair and both men stopped stunned at the loud groan that echoes through the living room. “Fine! Both of you wait here, I’ll be right back.”

The assistant rushes out, up the stairs and out of sight. Magician and scientist look from the steps to one another.

Willow has gotten into scuffles before, sure, as a kid. Nothing too bad, just been bruised up a bit, nothing wrong with a little rough and tumble. But that? Wilson looks horrific, the image of his eye in stuck in her head, bloodied and scrunched shut while the other is wide open. He still had that stupid look on when he entered the house too, not all there, a bit of a daze that a sheepish smile that didn’t know made her thoughts confused on whether she should be focused on the smile or the fact that the line in his lip looked deep enough to scar.

Her fingers curl into her palm. She hates why she’s so rushed.

Footsteps go up both sets of stairs and Willow checks behind her, just in case any guest got a little too curious, before swinging open the lab door and shutting it behind her.

A deadpan voice greets her turned back. “YOU ARE REEKING OF EMPATHY. QUIT IT.”

Willow frankly ignores the robot, passing Wx-78 without so much as a glance and rummaging though an assortment of drawers. The bot notes the silence, and she can heart the clunk of their steps getting closer, peering over her shoulder. “WHATS THAT.”

“A first aid kit.” She answers in a hurry, she even sounds like she’s out of breath. The red on her fingertip is brushed off onto her apron, and the robot glints at the color before looking back at the woman herself. “I HEARD-”

“Not now!” Pushing past them (a feat to do, considering their size and weight) Willow makes for the door and turns only to give them warning. “Stay up here and out of sight. And stop clunking around so damn loudly!”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, watching their face meld into a frown just as she slams the door behind her and rushes down the stairs.

Hushed talking sounds from the living room, and Willow reaches the bottom steps before looking out onto the room. Wilson and Maxwell turn to her in equally neutral expressions. Whatever they were speaking about prior has been cut off abruptly, and the room gone hush. She feels as if she had just interrupted something.

A glance towards Wilson and he avoids her gaze, looking back down with his one eye to inspect the skin of his knuckles. It’s easier to focus on his hands moreover than the moving figures in his house. It’s uncomfortably crowded enough as it was, and it certainly wasn’t doing him any good for his headache, all this chatter.

Willow thins her mouth into a line, but says nothing. “Here, I brought this.” She sets it down on the coffee table, leaning back and crossing her arms.“So, am I going to be told anything here? Or you guys just plan on keeping me out of the loop?”

A pause, and Maxwell is the one to answer her. “If it makes you feel any less apprehensive, he was only defending himself.”

Wilson watches her face drop again, brows furrowed and inwardly applauds the magician for being so well versed in acting.

“You got attacked?!” Willow whips around eyes wide to stare at him.  “Over what?”

Wilson nearly laughs at her expression. (He doesn’t. That would hurt a lot.) Instead, forgoing a response to just take a deep breathe and shutting his eyes. Two breathes, three, now he’s fine again, the blurry spots in his vision have begun to fade and he can open them again to see Willow closer than before, almost frightened by his silence.

The sight of her so near startles him for a moment, but any quick moment is discouraged as the body sharply reminds him of his condition. “Can we discuss this later? I’m not exactly in the mood for the topic and the disinfectant sting won’t help that either.”

The brunette frowns at him. “You want me to drop it.”

“I would, yes.”

“Why?”

Maxwell clears his throat. “I do believe Mr. Higgsbury is too embarrassed to tell you that he can’t really _remember_ why, Miss Willow.”

Her hands stop fiddling with the first aid kit, brows furrowing and eyes raising to scan over him again. Hair disheveled, the white shirt underneath his vest too stained to be salvaged, the bags underneath his eyes. There’s not bruising on the head, at least not what from she can see, but she feels her concern build on even higher as Wilson remains silent in her observation.

Willow shakes her head, running a hand down her face. “You’re kidding me. You think you have a concussion?”

The scientist doesn’t answer straight away, merely gives her a half hearted shrug. (A sudden twinge in his chest, he tries to smile but the cut on his lip does not allow him to do so without stretching the injury further.) “…I did get hit in the head pretty hard. One of the worst headaches I’ve ever had. ”

There’s a jest in his tone and Willow blinks at it. “Don’t you think you should go to the hospital-?”

“No.” The reply is curt and sudden. “Bedrest-” He starts again, and she notes how he has to collect himself every time he speaks, the borders of his sentences edged with the pain he’s currently trying his hardest not to voice. “Bedrest is all I need.”

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Maxwell folds his hands behind his back, shoes pointed towards the exit and throws a hand over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Higgsbury! I’ll send Warly your apologies and-”

“Wait!” Willow calls out to him. He stops, hand on the doorknob to look over his shoulder to her. “You were there, right? So you know what started it?”

Willow does not miss the hesitation in his stance, nor does she miss the fleeting glance to behind her. She does, however, miss the motion that Wilson makes, head shaking and a hand coming up to wave it him away in an unspoken request. _Don’t_.

“I believe that’s between you and Mr. Higgsbury. ” Maxwell opens the door, steps foot outside and bids them both the tip of his head. “Please, excuse me. I’m due with a word with a new acquaintance. Good day.”

The door shuts behind him, and scientist and assistant both turn to stare at one another (though it’s much more difficult for Wilson, considering only one eye was functional and the headache he was having has put him in a less than desired daze)

He looks conflicted, and for a moment Willow thinks he’s going to try and stand but she reaches a hand out and settles it on his shoulder (he flinches at the contact, she wonders if she touched a sore spot) and gently presses him back downwards.

Willow is the first to break the silence, and she musters up an awkward smile. “When I told you to surprise me, I didn’t mean _this_.”

Honestly, after that whole ordeal, the trip to the house and just dealing with Maxwell alone, the sight of her bright smile brings a relief to Wilson he didn’t know he needed. It’s a rush of something, not pain, but a feeling that brings his own awkward smile onto his face, cut or not. “Sorry-”

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. ** _SLAM._**

Wilson jolts in his seat, Willow’s shoulders rise in tension but drops immediately afterwards. Wx-78’s body lays at the bottom of the staircase, head turning with a mirth that shouldn’t be present in someone that just threw themselves down two flights of stairs. “I HEARD YOU FOUGHT.”

He stares at them as they try to stand. “Uh-”

Their sockets reach Wilson and out comes a monotonous laugh. “YOU LOSE. GOOD.”

Wx fumbles for a moment, out of the corner of his vision he see’s Willow step closer, towards him or the robot, he’s not sure. His depth of sight isn’t the greatest right now. But it’s set on the robot, standing up on their own and wobbling for a few moments with more balance than the scientist has seen since it’s creation.

Wx waddles around the room, a bit too familiar with the area than Wilson would have liked and comes to stand next to Willow, glaring down at him with all his injuries for show. The metal in their face bends to one of entertainment. “YOU LOOK LIKE [REDACTED]”

He blinks, and turns to Willow, who’s looking a little less than confident. “Did you let them out of the lab while I was out?”

Eyes wide, she looks like she got got with her hands in the cookie jar. “Maybe.”

Wilson slinks back into the cushions, groans at the next wave of pain rushing through his system and sighs.

* * *

Six weeks. 

It will take approximately _six weeks_ for the injuries he sustained to fully recover. Wilson should know, he’s the best doctor in the town.

Bedrest and careful moving around, treating the injuries properly and changing the bandages at the right time, constantly, keeping them clean and preventing himself from straining any further, all of these things are necessary and required if one as injured as himself were to make a full comeback from this little setback. Six weeks is a lot of time, too much time. Time that would be better spent on science.

A few days after the incident (or the first week of absolute boredom, as he preferred to call it) He finds himself lacking the patience needed to handle that kind of mundanity. He just created a sentient robot, for science’s sake, there wasn’t any time to rest!

The mind is constantly running and ready to experiment, the body disagrees with a sharp jab to the chest and Wilson is beginning to think that maybe the nausea and the dizziness he feels isn’t temporary, and perhaps he received a concussion after all. A double edged sword, since it would make him feel less bad about lying, but brain damage is no laughing matter.

So Wilson all but ignores the aches and pains and Willow’s insistent on seeing a ‘real doctor’ for the sake of science and continuation to work. Maybe that’s why he’s shut inside the washroom this early morning, half-dressed and with unbandaged eye because he’s pushed himself too far this time and can’t even put on his shirt without feeling like he’s been stabbed in the heart.

He’s debating on just pulling on his robe and slippers and working in that alone when a soft knock is on the door. “Hey, Wilson? Are you decent?” Willow’s voice comes out from the other side of the wood. “We’ve got a uh, little bit of a situation.”

“Which is?” He calls back.

“Wx keeps trying to eat all the your gear thingies in the lab.” A pause. “I also think they’re eating the spare light bulbs.”

That’s weird. He knows he installed a chemical engine, but that was only supposed to handle organic matter. Wilson’s installed a lot of features into that robot, but self-upgrade wasn’t one of them. “Could you…stop them? I’ll, uh…I’ll be a minute.”

He hears a confirmation come from the door, the sound of her footsteps walking away and disappearing. Wilson turns back to the mirror.

Dark eye bags. A scruffy face because he doesn’t have the hand-eye coordination to shave. It’s a miracle he can hold a test-tube by this point. The cut on his lip has healed a good bit, though you can hardly tell on the progress thanks to the shadow on his face. His eye? Well, he’s not blind, that’s for sure, though it doesn’t take a doctor to know that it shouldn’t look like _that_.

Wilson reaches for the roll of bandages on the counter, wraps his hand in a routine fashion (he doesn’t need to look for this one, he’s got it down to muscle memory) before he’s interrupted by the thump of running footsteps and something hitting the door. (and he swings his head too quickly to stare at the wood that his vision goes blurry and his mind feels numb for a few moments)

A thunk, something scrambling to the door and Willow has turned the doorknob and swung it out and open before Wilson could even so much as blink. “I think I-!”

She stops cold. Willow’s hand drops from the doorknob right as Wilson pulls the last strip of bandaging around his hand. For a moment, he thinks she’s staring the spot where the star-scar would be, so he curls his hand into a ball and faces her fully. But her eyes don’t leave his face, (a bright color, now that he’s noticed) and Wilson suddenly remembers that he is shirtless.

“….Uh.” Willow swallows. “Yikes.”

Well, he’s not sure what kind of reaction he was expecting, but it certainty wasn’t that. “Knocking.” It’s the only word he can muster to say, and he hates the tiny crack in his voice that comes with it. The pain in his head disappears just for the few seconds he can feel the heat rush up to his face. “Are you just-”

“Bruises.” She cuts him off, raising a finger and pointing to his chest. Wilson squints at her finger, following it’s line to his chest where several darkly colored splotches covered his skin. “You’ve completely covered in them. They, uh, really got you good, didn’t they?”

In the momentary embarrassment of being half-decent, Wilson had completely forgotten that he did indeed look beaten half to hell. “Yes, ah well…” A shuffle backwards. He reaches for the button up shirt hanging on the rod and attempts to causally put it on, clearing his throat and facing away from her. “You should see the other guys. Really put it to them, I did.”

He hears her scoff, and notes that she’s still standing in the doorway. The manner that they speak is casual. Far too casual for him, following gentlemanly standards. His heart is going much too fast for his liking and he wishes she would just turn around and shut the door.

“Charlie called, told me that Max told her that you pretty much got flung around like a dirty dishrag.” She says it bluntly, and he can’t see her from where he’s facing, but he’s certain from the mirth in her tone that there’s a teasing smile on her face.

The scientist groans regardless, folding the shirt around him to put on the sleeves. “Glad to know I’m the gossip of the town as usual-” A sharp hiss of pain. The shirt drops to the floor, Wilson clutching his rib cage. “ _Hell_.”

The sound of her approaching reaches him before he even registers she’s walked further into the room. “Here!” She’s picking his shirt from the floor, Wilson leaning up against the washroom counter for support. “Let me help you.”

“This isn’t in your job description.” The sentence comes out before he could even really think about it.

“Haven’t you ever had a friend help you out before?” She ignores his statement, holding out the shirt outwards like an invitation and Wilson tries not to think about the double meaning his brain racks together with the sight of it. “You’ll just strain yourself more otherwise.”

He wants to protest, he does. Something about manners and the inappropriateness of the situation, but he’s so tired, and her demeanor is so comfortable, that Wilson relents and slides his arms into the sleeves of the button up, Willow coming around to help him with the other and pulling the shirt forwards on his torso. “There! All ready to party, I guess.”

“I hate parties.” Again, the phrase comes out before he can think about it, and he’s momentarily distracted by the laughter that comes from her when she hears it. Her face is still a blushed red.

“I know you do.” A smile on her face, she reaches for the buttons on his shirt. She doesn’t realize he freezes, and she’s two buttons fixed before his hand comes up over her own and gently pulls them away from the fabric.

Wilson’s peering down at her with an unreadable expression. “My fingers are alright.”

“Oh, yeah.” She yanks down her hand, takes two steps backwards and does not make eye contact. “Sorry.”

“Of course.” He busies himself by fiddling with the bandage, ripping off the appropriate length.“Thanks.” He glances at her from the corner of his good eye, and hopes that it’s not too obvious. “For the help, I mean.”

He see’s the smile on her face return, and the anxiety that has bubbled up inside of him is both simultaneously relieved and flutter at the sight. “No problem. Just call me if you need anything.” She walks backwards out of the room, giving him one last look over before cracking the door. “I’ll uh, be in the kitchen if you need me. Wx too.”

“Okay.” Hell, his head is starting to spin.

She shuts the door, her footsteps fade. He briefly wonders what she was going to stay before the sudden intrusion, mulling over the possibilities as he wrings the bandages around his head and over the eye. The mirror’s reflection is one of a worn-out soul. He’s had better days, though he doesn't expect them to be coming soon.

He makes it to the end of the stairs somehow without a sudden spritz of pain, and even to the kitchen just fine just he tries to sit down at the table. Just moving his mid-section a fraction reminds him that he is out-of-commission and frankly he was hoping the feeling would get old. It doesn’t.

Willow is fiddling with something out of sight, Wx sitting at the table across from him. The robot looks frustrated, disappointed even. In front of them, a place sits full of a mixed mess of scrapped metal Wilson is certain he threw out the other day, and an abundance of what looked to be something gooey.

Something is set down in front of him, and Wilson breaks from his daze to find a bowl of cereal. Willow steps back with her own bowl, leaning on the edge of the table (there’s no third chair. Wilson’s manners scream at him to give his up for the lady in the room but the body is unwilling to cooperate. She’d probably just insists he sit anyways) with a spoon in her mouth.

He inwardly tuts at her when she chews and speaks at the same time. “So, when you going to the docs?”

“I’m not.” He picks up a spoon, holds it for a moment, then lets it drop to the table. He needs to take a breather first. “I’m not that bad, really.”

“No offense, but you looked like moldy bread.” She jests. Wx-78’s laughter overcomes the room. He peers up at her with a down turned mouth and squinted eyes, (one eye, actually) and Willow stifles the giggle at the funny look that he makes. “I don’t think you’re doing so well.”

“You let me worry about that. Did you take those letter to the post office I needed you to?” He changes the subject quickly.

She huffs at him for a moment, before swallowing her food and putting down her bowl. He watches her turn and walk out of the room, calling out over her shoulder. “Not yet! It’s supposed to rain today!”

A clink of metal against the plate, Wx stops what they were doing. “WHATS ‘RAIN’?”

Wilson hates how grating their voice is, but musters up an answer anyways. “Condensed atmospheric water vapor that falls from the sky.”

The metal in their face crinkles in disgust. “I HATE IT.”

He misses how the robot pipes up when Willow is just out of earshot. “I didn’t make you water proof. I’m not surprised-”

“I KNOW YOU LIED.”

Scientist stops, droopy eyes focusing and ears straining to make sure he heard that right. “What-?”

“I KNOW YOU LIED ABOUT REMEMBERING. I HEARD ALL THINGS.” The robot speaks quickly, and surprisingly hushed for someone who’s voice is about as grating and monotone as radio static. “I HEARD YOU AND THE STRANGER DISCUSSING. MY AUDIO PROCESSORS ARE FAR SUPERIOR THAN HUMANS.”

He should know that, he installed that little bit himself. But in a moment of agony and scheming, Wilson had pretty much forgotten about the robot in the attic the day he was delivered home. “I have my reasons.”

“I DON’T CARE.” The robot shuts down his explanation curly and quickly. “LYING IS EVIL AND I RESPECT EVIL. SHE’LL NEVER KNOW. UNLESS YOU UPSET ME.”

Now, typically a man of his manner would be worried. Though, the threat is empty (at least, he believes so) and Wilson is not in the mood for playing games. Much too tired. (Injury or not, he’s perfectly capable of deactivating them anyways.)

Blue eye falls down from robot to what they were holding, and it finally hits Wilson what he’s looking at. He questions his delayed notice. The room still feels like another dimension.

He curses the human body and the pain that holds him back, because it’s been far too long since he’s been able to make note of his newest creation’s progress. “Are you…eating? Like a person?”

“YES.” The robot does not use a fork or spoon, picking up bits and pieces with their fingers and letting it drop into the hole that suits into the mouth. Their voice box has returned to it’s usual pitch and volume.“FUEL RESERVES LOW.”

“They tried to eat the doo-dad things you have in the lab, so I made them breakfast.” Willow interrupts. Her sudden arrival back into the room startles him. She’s holding something in her hands, white and soft. Wilson blinks. The image of her is blurry. “They said they were tired of just running off of electricity alone.”

“ROBOT NEEDS FOOD.”

“Oh.” He manages a nod. “Alright.”

A pause, no noise save for Wx’s clinking and odd gearing noises. Willow is giving him an odd look. “Earth to scientist?”

Her voice sounds like she’s directly next to his ear, and he doesn’t know why this morning is much worse than all the other mornings so far. The sting in his hand feels wet. He ignores it. “What are you holding there?”

“Oh!” A rustle of fabric, and she’s lifting it upwards.“I don’t think I can get the red stains out of your dress shirt. Trust me, I’ve tried. I think this one is a goner. Your vest came out okay though. ” There’s a laugh in her voice, a bubbly smile on her face. So lighthearted, her mood makes the bland wallpaper of the kitchen seem so much brighter. “Can I throw it in the fireplace?”

He waves a hand, blinks the white spots out of his vision and returns to starring at the bits of cheerios floating in the milk. “Go ahead.”

“I was only joking.” But she tosses it over to the counter anyways later for the burning. Wx’s plate clatters across the table, empty and they stand upright very suddenly, ready to leave. Willow points at it. “I’m not cleaning that up.”

They keep their hands on the edge of the table for support, but their balance is better nowadays.“MINIONS CLEAN UP AFTER THEIR SUPERIORS.”

“I am NOT your minion!” She points a finger in their face. “Stop saying that-!”

Clunk.

Willow looks over. Wilson’s face is in the bowl.

“Oh, fuck!” She rushes to his side of the table, hands on his shoulders and shaking him a little. No stir, only a groan (and a sound that quickly tells her that no, he did not just die in the matter of seconds she had her head turned) and Wilson is mummering about something smelling sweetly, but between the milk and the cheerios it’s nothing she can decipher.

“Shit! You can’t just pass out on me like that. You good? Hello?” She brings his head out of the cereal, wiping off the milk and pieces stuck to his face with her apron. He peers up at her with one half-lidded eye, almost makes a remark on her concerned expression before promptly flopping forwards again. “Hey!”

“IS HE DEAD.” Wx’s voice is unwelcome and amused from behind her. “DID HE DIE? GOOD.”

“No, he’s not dead! What’s wrong with you?” With the best of her strength, she sets her hands underneath his arms and lifts him upwards, out of the chair and letting his weight fall back onto her. He’s heavier than he looks. “Wx! Help me out here!”

“APOLOGIZE TO YOUR SUPERIOR FOR YOUR INCOMPETENCE.”

She sends them a wired look over Wilson’s shoulder. “If he dies, you die. You think I know how to fix you if something were to go wrong?” Wilson says something that comes out jarbled, but she’s too busy sending glares across the room to listen. “Scan him for me!”

The robot looks taken aback. “DO I LOOK LIKE AN X-RAY TO YOU.”

“I know you can!” All those hours listening to the robot brag about their beta features suddenly seemed useful. “Just really quick!”

“TAKE THE SCIENTIST TO A FLESHLING MECHANIC.”

“It’s called a ‘doctor’ and he is refusing, you bucket of bolts!” The insult comes out unwarranted but hey, she’s a little bit panicked.

A near comical gasp comes from the robot. “HOW DARE YOU.”

He’s heavy, and he’s trying to stand on his own. He’s failing at it, . Willow presses her hands up against his torso and cringes at the whine that comes from him as she most certainly hit something very, very sore. “Wx, _please_!”

Their hands go ridged and robot stands off with a hard look, now going conflicted, though their voice isn’t any less of a shout when they finally relent. “FINE.”

“Finally!” She’s getting really tired of arguing. A sigh escapes her. “Thank you.”

Wx pauses. For a moment, she thinks they’ve frozen up. Then they slump forwards, focus on Wilson and their voice is now an order. “HOLD HIM UPRIGHT.”

She does just that to the best of her ability, and it’s much more difficult than it looks, considering she’s got her cheek pressed against his back and arms wrapped around his mid-section to keep him straight (Wilson speaks lowly, “That hurts,” and she apologies for it but doesn’t move) and waits. “Hurry? He’s kinda heavy.”

“SCANNING.” Something blinks to life in their eye sockets. Yellow, bright. Like little pinpricks in the dark.

Gears whir in the silence, and Willow feels like she’s been waiting for too long. “Well?” She questions, uncaring whether or not Wilson was coherent enough ask first. “How is he healing?”

The robot doesn’t answer.

“Wx?” Willow feels an arm shift around her, and instinctively lets Wilson use her as a leverage, lowering him back down to the chair and setting him upright so he doesn’t fall face forwards again. She checks his eyes. Dazed over,  fluttering. Lines in his face from scrunching up from the waves of pain. He looks completely winded.

She turns back after hearing only silence. “Wx-78?” Willow expects them to tell her he’s punctured a lung or something. Or maybe having a heart attack. Who knows, she wasn’t a doctor! She didn’t even know how to treat a burn until a few months ago! What else is she supposed to think? “What do you see?”

They’re staring. Suddenly the lights in their eyes shut off. They look from his chest to her, to Wilson and back to her again. A hand comes up to scratch at the front of their chassis. “HE IS HEALING.”

“So-?”

“I’m okay.” Wilson’s voice interrupts. It comes out low and strained. “I’m fine.”

The room is spinning, but it’s beginning to slow. He doesn’t know how long he’s been in a daze, or where it came from, or why his head feels like it’s been held underwater and his chest like it’s being compressed. It’s not a pleasant feeling. The look on his face must give away the facade, because Willow is staring at him with an intensity that Wilson cannot match.

He’s going to brush this off? Just like that?

She opens her mouth and he already knows what she’s going to say. “I’ll take some time off from Science. A week or so, get some rest.” He tells her. She doesn’t seem to believe it. “For real, this time.”

He thinks she’s going to insists that he leave to go see a ‘real’ doctor again, (and frankly, he would be offended if she did.) but her mouth opens and closes and her expression softens, satisfied yet not quite with his answer, but understanding that’s probably the best compromise she’s going to get.

A lopsided smile, Willow tries to be lighthearted.“Does this mean I get paid vacation?”

He raises a brow, and despite the pain in his face, a smile stretched across it.“There’s an umbrella hanging on the coat rack. The post office closes at six.”

She groans, striding past him and mumbling protests underneath her breath. Wilson takes a deep breath, stands on his own and makes it far enough to lean on the doorway, waving his assistant off when she steps forwards when he looks like he’s about to topple over again. He hates how helpless he must have looked.

Willow hesitates in the slightest before leaving, off to find a raincoat. She doesn’t own one, so she steals the one belonging to him off the rack along with the umbrella and Wilson pretends not to notice.

Wx walks past him, movements strangely natural as they moved. They stop to stare at him for a moment, to the bandage wrapped around his hand, and promptly make their way up the stairs without a word.

* * *

The week after is mundane, save for Wilson’s complaints of boredom.

Work for Willow isn’t so much different. She still runs the errands she needs to, with the added responsibility of running the ones he no longer can. Keeping the house tidy isn’t too much of an issue because, well, Wilson tends to clean up after himself and a robot doesn’t really have a reason to make that much of a mess. The only thing Wx-78 is capable of creating is a headache, she’s beginning to think.

Wilson keeps to himself in his room. He hardly has come out at all, and he’s oddly avoidant, but she tries not to question. Probably still upset about his work being halted.

So she enjoys her off time, settling in the fireplace whenever it was lit (more often than not, now that the colder winter months were ahead. Halloween was just around the corner, and Willow has not seen snowfall in a very long time) where she sits and fumbles through the books on his living room bookshelf, or if Wx-78 felt particularly braggy that evening then she lets them ramble about their superiority and laughs as they bump into the door-frame and trip over their own feet.

She even got to sleep in! No more waking up at 8AM, now that science has been put on hiatus, so Willow doesn’t scold herself when she stays up later than usual to fix the threading on one of Bernie’s ears where the stuffing has begun to pool out.

It’s late in the night, the sky outside her window is black and full of stars hidden in the treeline. The house is silent, mostly. It’s relaxing.

Until she hears a creak of wood, a thump and the tell-tell sounds of footsteps clunking down the stairs.

Whoever they are, they don’t even bother to knock, and her door swings open with the momentum enough to break hinges if said person didn’t hang onto the damn thing in case they were to topple over.

Wx-78 does not spare time to take in her surprised appearance before shouting loudly, and quite proudly. “THE SCIENTIST IS DEAD. REJOICE.”

Her heart stops. “ _What_?!”

The robot exclaim something else, something happy (and it’s an emotion that the bucket of bolts does not express freely that often) but Willow all but springs from her spot on the bed, shoving them aside (they trip and call her names, but that’s not important right now) and bolting down the hallway, up the stairs and to the door of the lab that’s just swinging open precariously.

Her heart is pounding. The body going from relaxation to a rush of fear and shock is not a good feeling.

She barrels inside, scanning the room. He’s there, splayed out on the floor near his desk, eyes shut and face stuck in a peaceful expression as if he were merely sleeping. Willow nearly trips herself springing to him. “Wilson? Wilson?!”

Skidding to her knees to a stop, the back of her mind registers the sound of Wx coming up the stairs following her, but her mind is running a million miles a minute soaking in confusion and shock. Two breathes, three, her lungs are a little out of order. Hands shaking, she hovers them over his body. What happens? What was she supposed to do? What happens?

A groan. Willow blinks and her eyes feel wet. The body moves a little, Wilson’s brows scrunching together, as if experiencing a bad dream.

She presses her ear to his chest. A heartbeat.

Something has come to rest atop her head, gently, patting as if it found her odd to be there. Assistant looks up to find scientist’s eye blinking, tired and glazed from sleep but eventually coming to a full focus on the woman who’s face was not much farther from his own.

“Oh.” His voice is coated with sleep. “Good…Evening, Willow.”

Willow whips back, grabs the nearest object nearby (a glass tube that was empty, must have fell from the desk as Wilson did) and chucks it across the room. Wx-78 dodges it as it smashes against the wall, laughing all the while.

“You prick!” Her face is beat red. “You told me he was dead! Does this look dead to you!” She jabs a finger into Wilson’s chest. (He doesn’t hiss at the poke, his unwrapped eye coming to stare at where her finger pressed, certain it’s touching a spot where his ribs are hurt the most.) “Are you dense?!”

“LOOK AT YOU. YOU LOOK LIKE YOU’RE GOING TO CRY.” Their mouth bends into a shit-eating grin. Something else is thrown, a book this time, and it soars past the robot’s shoulder and into a box of scrap metal. “HA HA. PATHETIC.”

She throws a third item, (a pencil this time!) and it clinks against the side of the robot’s head and they make a sputtering noise as Willow turns swiftly, face red and mouth in a down turned line. “And _you_!”

Wilson looks like a deer caught in the headlights. The hand, (still caught on one of her pigtails, he’s finally awake to notice,) drops to the side, the scientist sitting up with lightening speed. A sheepish smile comes to face, nervous, hands held out in a peaceful gesture towards a very, very displeased assistant. “Now, now I have my reasons-”

“Sneaking up here! When you’re all-!” She pokes to the front of his shirt, gesturing to all of him. “Fucked! You said you were taking a break-”

“I am! I am, listen. Just, hear me out on this.” He’ll tut at her for her language later. An explanation was due. “You know the wonders of science right? The things I’ve done. We’ve done. Growing tree’s in a matter of seconds, creating stars, the whatnot, right?”

He speaks quickly and inherently like a child that’s running whatever comes off the tip of his tongue. There’s something off about how he speaks too, coated in his native accent but something else, slurred and a bit delayed in his words, like one when intoxicated.

But Willow listens, arms crossed and swallowing the dryness that was in her throat a mere minute earlier. “Go on.”

“So.” He makes to stand, using the desk as leverage and despite his obvious deliberation, holds a hand out to Willow to hoist her up as well. “I had an idea! It’s uh, similar to my beard concoction, if you will, just a little different, this one. Like hair, it promotes rapid cell growth. Heals you, for lack of a better explanation.”

She puffs out her lip at his outstretched hand and stands on her own accord. “You’re still beaten.” She states.

“Well. Yes.” He retracts it, reaching for an array of items scattered about his work station. “It’s not a miracle. It’s science. But it does help. With the pain, I mean.” He waves a hand for effect and Willow notes how sloppy of an action is it.“For the most part.”

Willow glares at him, and Wilson merely waits for her reaction. Both ignore the sound of Wx chewing on something in the background.

Amber eyes glance to his desk, scanning in over what he’s been working on, squinting at the neat assortment of specimens he’s put out. Mushrooms, colors of blue and green, it looked like, mixed together along with something pink and gooey, not unlike the substance he has in the small jar kept with the first aid kit.

But there’s something new there, something she’s not seen before. It appears to be a vegetable, several of them, one of which was cut in half. It’s long, a sickly grey color, leaves sprouting out at the end at an odd angle. But it being out of place doesn’t phase her, no, it’s the face it has. Twisted up in an expression of death.

The way he has these ingredients pouched together makes it look like he was preparing a stew, or a potion, or even just a soup.

She points to the make-shift medicine. “What IS that?”

Wilson gives her loopy smile.

* * *

 So he explains to her that he has gone and created this fancy, smancy new medicine made of plants she’s never heard of before and apparently they make him fall into a deep sleep within the next few minutes, groggy, disoriented but with no pain. That is, until the effect wears off and Wilson gladly eats another one whole and drops on the spot.

Great. It’s an experience. She nearly screams when she walks into the hallway one day and trips over his lying body.

Vision is too groggy to be completely certain, but he thinks a bra or something fell out from the basket that’s been dropped to the floor. “Holy shit!”

“Language.” His sleepy voice comes up from the floor and Wilson makes the conscious effort not to look in the direction of her skirt. “Sorry, I’m blocking your door.”

Willow pulls him up, curses his new found carelessness with his experiment. Just because you can’t feel pain doesn’t mean the body isn’t in turmoil. And Wilson, despite his doctorate, finds it too boring to sit still and heal properly. No, instead he has to go play god and just erase pain all together. All it ever cost him were the hours in the day were he’s allowed to be awake.

So Willow hoists him up, holds him firmer when he makes move to walk away and asks him _what_ exactly are those plants he’s eating. And why do they have a face?

She almost gawks when the scientist, one so certain of information and research as a must, just shrugs at her. “Not sure. It was dead when I got it. At least, I think it’s dead. I don’t know if I should consider this a plant or…a mammal?” He trails off, thinking out loud. “I always thought she carved the faces in herself, you know, like a little joke. I don’t believe they look like this, really.”

“I want you to stop eating them.”

The request is so sudden, Wilson blinks in surprise. His assistant steps back, removing her arms as his guide and picking the laundry basket up she dropped in the trip from earlier.

She looks to him firmly. “You keep passing out all the time, and you say you don’t feel pain, but you look…” She takes him in. The dark eye bags, the scruff on his face he still hasn’t shaved, the lack of color in his face. The eye hasn’t shown any sign of healing, red skin trailing up to the injury hidden behind white bandages. Blue awaits her to finish. “You don’t look any better than day one.”

She doesn’t wanna call his experiment a failure, he thinks. That’s not right, not true, and there’s another reason that’s itching in the back of his head. Though, Wilson’s finger’s fiddle with the wrapping still around his palm and speaks. “It helps me sleep. I don’t get that often.”

He see’s her face soften just for a minute, and he hopes he hasn’t said too much. “Well, could you at least take it easy?” She urges him, hoisting the basket up on her hip. “Just…think about it.”

And he does, leaning for a good minute on the wood of her door. A hand comes up to brush through the remainder of his beard (he’ll have to shave that, really, it was beginning to look uncivilized) and Wilson intakes a deep breathe and lets out a sigh.

She looks hopefully to him. How could he say he wouldn't try to a face like that? “I’ll ration it. I’ll take smaller doses, not enough to knock me out, but enough to promote healing.” He watches a smile grow on her face in tune with his answer and tries not to think about it  too much. The pain in his head was coming back anyways. “Science doesn’t wait, you know.”

“It can wait for you.” The blur of her hand, her fingers tug at the end of his beard and Wilson’s throat goes momentarily stricken. “

The scientist is too lost in his head space to notice her face go flush when she notices a certain item forgotten on the floor,pick up the offending item off the floor and stuff it back into the laundry basket before scurrying off.

* * *

Again, this was a terrible, no good idea and Wilson is beginning to regret it immensely.

Dosing the mandrake was difficult, and while his pain threshold was showing some progress, it didn’t take away from the fact that now he was even more inhibited than he was before.

He tries to note the effect, remember that self-medication was always trial and error but finds that he cannot even hold a pencil, nor can he read the words he’s written on the paper, nor can he even remember what he has scribbled down seconds prior to this moment. In fact, how did he even get here?

Oh, that’s right. He’s in the washroom, and that’s not a notebook he’s holding, it’s a clean bandage. He’s supposed to be changing his eye’s old one. Wasn’t he in his lab? Willow wouldn’t like that, not now. He wishes he could go back to science, the experimentation, and with her help too. All this process was far too boring, too complicated, and he prefers to be clear minded. It’s foggy now, like his reflection in the mirror. Was there water running?

“No science” He’s mumbling to no one. “Told her. None of that.”

Why did he promise her that again? Remembering is a pain.

Well, not REALLY pain, because he can’t feel the full extent of it. But damn him if the world didn’t suddenly warp around him and the sound of the someone knocking at the door didn’t feel like it was from an underwater radio. His reflection looks just as miserable as he does. Willow was right, he really didn’t look any better than from day one. The eye is worse now even, and he can’t feel it, but he can’t see out of it either. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to act if he were to go out into public with half of his face under wraps.

Not that it would change much anyways. He’s a madman, wicked. He’ll scare children, save for one. It might be good for Halloween when it comes, but no one comes to his house anyways. Does it make him look less handsome? His reflection seems to think so. What would his assistant think of that?

Two weeks after being beaten and his own stubbornness has prevented any sort of natural healing necessary. Go figure.

Door hinges squeak. Wilson does not look up from the sink until a hand comes into sight and turns off the water he’s been running, stopping it before it overflowed the sink. (Did he do that? How long has he been standing here?)

Amber eyes and flippy pigtails and a face that looks soft enough to squish and a voice that floats around his head and soars, flies, Wilson doesn’t know when it ends. He doesn’t know what she’s saying. He’s having to tune his ears out of the radio static and back into the room of reality.

When he finally does, he realizes the image of her he’s viewing is from his memory, not what he’s seeing. Supposed to be seeing. She’s a blur.

“Can you see how many fingers I’m holding up?” Her sentence is a jumbled mess in his mind, but he’s able to make sense of it anyways. Wilson blinks, (well, it’s more of a wink now) and tries to focus on the imagery in front of him.

 _Ah_. There she is. A little fuzzy, but she’s holding up four fingers (probably) and is, well, a bit close. Too close. He pretends not to notice. The smell of fire comes off of her, like a scent she left on his sheets once, after one too many drinks and he tucked her in himself. (Don’t think about it.)

Her hair is undone for once, the ends puffing out in a disheveled manner. Not as undone as he looked though. Not as undone as he’d like her to be. ( _Stop that._ )

“Cute.” The unauthorized word comes out mangled.

“Two?” She repeats, tilting her head. He see’s the blurred shape of her hand lower and Willow appears satisfied with whatever answer she has taken from him. “I guess they didn’t hit you _that_ hard.” A tease. She’s smiling.

He says nothing. Just stands and stares at her. Part of his brain is telling him to look away, don’t be weird, don’t be creepy. The other half is somewhere on vacation, enjoying the scenery and the absolute mess that that Wilson is making for himself out to be.

Willow doesn't seem to mind, thankfully. A hand comes forward, she’s taking the bandage, and it slips from his grasp without so much of a protest.

“Let me help you?” It’s a question, not a statement. Willow’s voice is so soft in his ears and his head is floating, floating away. He doesn’t do anything else but nods, despite not really wanting to allow it. The smile on her face beats down any doubts he has anyways.

He’s seating on the lidded toilet, head down and shoulders slumped as she walks closer and presses the her fingers to the sides of his head very gently. Against his skin, he can feel them, combing through the mess of his hair and and curling the bandage length around her fingers. He doesn’t understand the polite chatter, just everyday talk she’s making to fill the silence, but he can feel her fingernails scrape against his scalp as she moves his hair farther from his eye and it’s lulling him to sleep. He could sleep, right now. He shouldn’t.

She’s talking about how she burned his shirt, making jokes about it, how she’ll  save up and buy him a new one. Something about them being out of paper towels, or the mail box was full, or another little domestic thing his mind doesn’t catch. Wx was bleeding again earlier, black oil, she says. That little detail goes in one ear and out the other.

His fingernails pick at his hand covering, scratching the scar underneath. It remembers what her mouth felt like.

“Thank you.” He’s able to form the words to a satisfactory state. Clear enough, he hopes she understands.

Willow stops what she’s doing, half way finished with the wrapping around his head and he misses the feeling of her hands on his face, and he wonders why what he said has made her stop. “No problem. I told you to call me if you needed something.” She smiles, this time flashing her teeth. Her cheeks crease when she smiles and he likes the lines in her face that lingers when it’s gone. “You did the same, remember?”

He looks up at her words, because he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be remembering.. There’s a shy look about her. “You took care of me when I was, uh, really messed up. Back at the gala.” She gives a nervous laugh. “I’d feel bad if I didn’t return the favor.”

“I’m not drunk.” He tells her, but does not mention that the effects of drugging himself for one’s benefit and tolerance could reach the same result. Science is fickle.

She doesn’t answer, and it hits him that he may have spoken too quietly, no more than a mumble that can’t be heard over the sound of her own humming. Oh, she’s humming. How sweet. He’s not used to music.

He’s not used to a lot of things. He’s starting to get used to new ones, and it’s startling thought when you’ve been a outcast from society for over a decade.

He keep his eyes downwards, head hung down low, focusing on the tiles.

“It’s a good look for you.” She’s catches his attention again. “The beat up look I mean. Makes you look like a total ruffian.”

The very thought of it is alarming. Men like him, how he was raised and all, are supposed to be as cleaned up and proper as could be. “M’not.” He says, “I’m a gentleman.”

She leans back, raising an eyebrow in mirth. He feels her hands on his cheeks and his head tilted upwards.“Aren’t gentlemen supposed to be against violence?”

“I had good reason.” The sentence feels like gravel coming out of his throat. “I didn’t throw the first punch.”

If she caught onto his fib, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she steps back and admire her handiwork. He does as well, one hand coming up to touch the white wrapped around his head so delicately. It wasn’t a hassle, not like all the time he’s done it. Not too loose, not too tight either, like she was being extra careful. Though he doesn’t want to look incapable, he wishes she’d do this more often.

“Sure thing. I’ll help you the next time it needs to be changed.” She grins, hands on her hips. “We should put some of that pink goop stuff on it though. I know it’ll sting, but your face still looks pretty gnarly.”

Wilson freezes. Did he say that wish out loud? “Oh, alright.” He lowers his hand, and his gaze raises up from the ground. “Thank you.”

The look she gives him is odd. “You said that already.”

No he didn’t. Did his words come out correctly? Maybe his mouth isn’t working. It doesn’t feel like it is. The cut on his lip is healed completely, (he knows, he checked, it’s difficult to shave with something like that and Wilson was itching to have a clean face finally. It’s a miracle he didn’t nick himself.) yet there’s a malfunction. He’ll blame it on the numbness, or the sleepiness, or whatever else he can.

Human beings understand body language. He can use that too.

Maybe he’s too forward, but it doesn’t matter, because Wilson is clumsy as he lifts himself up off the seat, leaning (falling) forwards onto Willow and wrapping his arms around her. She’s startled, not only interrupted in tying the bandages’s knot but now because she’s captured. Sorry, taken. He’s gentle in his hold, and he mummers words into her hair while she breathes in the scent of his shirt.

“Thank you.” The house used to be so empty before she came. His _life_ was. “For everything.”

Her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, he can’t see her expression. Her nails dig into his back. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

She shifts him so she’s helping him stand straighter, facing the door, and tells him he should probably go rest. (It’s daytime outside, he can see it through the window. Why does he need to sleep. He doesn’t want to try.) But there’s no say in the matter, because his footsteps fall in place with her own, matching her pace. He really doesn’t need to be guided.

He can walk fine, he thinks, but it’s comfortable having her arm around his shoulders, so he lets it stay and pretends not to notice the world shifting around him.

His bedroom door comes into view and suddenly he’s inside.

He’s in bed and he doesn’t exactly recall how he got in it. The sheets are thrown over him quickly and the pillow has been fluffed. A weary eye glances to the end table next to him. A glass of water, something that looked like notes, ink on scribbled paper. Something he’s left in the lab, no doubt, something that would relieve his boredom should he awaken. But he does not remember going up the stairs. He does not remember the sound of the door opening and closing twice.

Wilson does not sleep that afternoon.

* * *

Three weeks in and everything is starting to look a little bit better.

The bruises on his chest have greatly diminished, and the pain is more of an wild inconvenience than it was a random stab of agony every time he twisted or turned too much in the wrong direction. He’s not done healing though, and he’s starting to question if his medical skills have gone rusty since it’s taking this long. Willow tells him that it’s because he doesn’t like to stay in bed, and he’s quick to tell her (whenever he’s coherent, of course) that there’s more to it than just that.

Briefly, he wonders, if he was wrong in the assumption that his attackers had broken a rib or two during the fight, or really, if he had any sort of blunt trauma, internal bleeding. If he did, he’d be in much worse shape. Or dead. The other two men were much larger, and were not gentlemen such as himself. (He still doesn’t regret it.)

Though, he’s voicing this out loud in the living room one day, situated on the sofa while Willow tends to the fire roaring across the room (large, hot, teetering over the edge of the fireplace but that’s just how she likes it. He trusts her not to burn down the house.) when Wx interrupts him in the middle of his spiel, quite insistent that he should be dead.

Wilson puts down the book he was reading, and in the corner of his eye, he spies Willow looking out from the flames as well. “Excuse me?”

“YOU SHOULD BE DEAD.” Wx has no filter, the bluntness in their voice is as loud as can be. They’ve broken out of the lab again, (locking the door doesn’t phase them, because breaking the lock off wasn’t just a threat, and the robot had strength that Wilson doesn’t remember programming. But he knows all the joints in their body and what screw to take out if they get too chaotic, so the scientist isn’t afraid.)

“You can’t just tell people they should be dead. That’s rude.” Willow pipes up from her spot in the fire. The robot turns to stare at her, or more importantly, the teddy bear she’s been sewing on for the past couple of minutes. “How would you feel if someone told you that you should be deactivated?”

“HUMAN BEINGS ARE FRAGILE AND USELESS. YOUR BONES BREAK AND YOUR ORGANS ARE EASY TO PUNCTURE. HE SHOULD BE DEAD.” They bluntly ignore her statement with a hardened look and Willow holds Bernie the slightest bit closer as they take a step forward.

Wilson shouldn’t humor them, but he does. “But I’m not? What if I’m tougher than you think?” A grin, there’s a touch of pride in his face. “Given some more time, I’ll be completely recovered. You should see the other guys.”

Willow sends him a flat face and raised brow in disbelief. Wx sends him a look as well, but a different one. Pinprick eyes flashing yellow, double checking, before their sockets go dark again and they scoff at his attitude. “YOU ARE LUCKY TO HAVE HEALED SO QUICKLY. I COULD SNAP YOU IN TWO.”

“I think that’s the mandrake doses.” He refutes. “And I’d like to see you try.”

The robot twitches. “TAUNT DETECTED.”

They step forward, for a split moment Wilson thinks they’re going to rush him, and that might be the paranoia, or the lingering dose of the last of the mandrake in his body, but he’s slow. It takes him a moment to realize that Wx hasn’t gone for him at all, but Willow.

Or really, her bear. “Hey! Fuck off!”

Willow kicks at the robot, now caught in a dead grip between tugging Bernie back to herself as metal hands grab it’s legs and try to pull it out of her grip. She’s well enough in the fire, so they don’t get any closer than bare necessary, but they’re dragging her out along with the pull and Wx is not showing any signs of letting up.

Wilson bolts from the sofa to break them up and his body immediately despises him for it.

A sudden, sharp and yearning pain travels through his body, centering around his chest and up his neck, a pounding in his head and he’s found the floor again. His fingers find his shirt, clutching at the fabric, as if it would actually do anything. He feels his body crumple a bit, his grip finds the coffee table, struggling to stand up and looks just in time to see Wx drop the teddy.

Willow scoots back to the far back of the fireplace, yelling profanities at them, but they don’t care. They’re not interested in her, no longer now that Wilson is certain they’ve proven their point.

Standing up too quickly was a simple, yet telling mistake. Wx is smiling. “EXAMPLE (1) WEAKNESS.”

Gritting his teeth, he takes a deep breathe and tells Willow that he’ll be taking the mandrake early.

(Briefly, in the back of his mind, he thinks back to Maxwell’s warning about this robot, and decides his pride as a scientist is more important than the here and the now.)

* * *

Wilson has retired already, even though the sky isn’t fully dark and the sun is still setting over the horizon. But he’s eaten a part of the experiment, nearly the last of it, she thinks, and waddled off to his room in a daze where he’s locked himself in there without so much as a word or a even taking the time to change his wrappings.

So as soon as Wx is set up to be charging for the night, Willow sneaks the first aid kit out of the lab, steps quietly down the stairs and finds herself at his door.

One knock, two knocks. Softly as she could manage. She doesn’t want to wake him if he’s already sleeping, but the jar and rag are heavier in her hands than she remembers and the image of his eye unclothed as it was gives her the shivers. “Psst. You awake?”

No answer. Her free hand fiddles with the end of her shirt (not hers, she could never really afford the really nice pajamas) and it rises up to knock again. Bernie is tucked in her elbow, with her always. “Wilson-?”

Something soft hits the other side of the door, a quiet ‘poomf’ noise coming from the other end. Willow hesitates, then she turns the doorknob slowly, bringing the door open to a crack. Wilson covers his face with the blankets to shield from the light. A pillow lays on the floor a few inches from the entrance. “May I come in?”

“I don’t see why not.” A muffled, sleepy Wilson sounds from underneath the covers. “You usually…don’t knock.”

There’s the delay in his voice again, the slight slur. Willow smiles, picks up the pillow and places it at the end of the bed. She pauses for a moment, thinking, then climbs on top of the mattress on the opposite end, placing the supplies in between the two of them, Bernie snuggled up against a pillow and her hands in her lap.

The sudden weight shift on the mattress almost causes him to jolt. Wilson flings the covers off of his face, (the bandage is already gone, thrown to the side somewhere once he got too irritated with it, so the eye and all it’s damage is plain to see) and stares at the spot where she’s sitting. “That’s inappropriate.”

She’s tearing off a piece of the wrapping, raising a brow. “What is?”

“You sitting here.” He raises a sloppy hand and pokes one of her knees. “On my bed. Inappropriate.”

Willow pauses for a moment, before giving out a laugh that she covers with her hand, muffling the noises that Wilson’s ears has unconsciously tuned into. “That’s what you’re worried about? Are you uncomfortable?”

Yes and No. For completely different reasons. “Not really.”

“Then don’t worry about it. I’m not gonna vomit on your bed or anything.” She jests, sending him a wink. Another laugh comes from her when he blinks at her response, but it just looks like a wink in return. “We’re just hanging out. We can call it a sleep over, except I’m not actually sleeping here. Haven’t you ever had a sleep over?”

“No, not really.” He sits up, the pillows settled behind him to be used as support. Vision shaded, the room was dim and the only real light they had is what was coming in from the hallway. Wilson’s body is partially under the covers, whilst Willow sits on top of them. “You seem giddy.”

“I just think it’s funny. Didn’t you have any friends as a kid?”

What an odd, silly thing to ask of him. Wilson’s head tilts to the side, loopy and drifted. He doesn’t answer her properly. “You?”

“Me?” She repeats. The end of the bandage tears off, and she stretches it out once more to double check the length. “Nah, people would always come and go. ”

The mirth in her face drops for a split second, and while he is very disoriented, he doesn’t miss it. “I thought you said you had sleepovers.”

“Sleeping in the same room with a bunch of brats count, doesn’t it?” There’s something in her smile he can’t pick out of. It falters, she doesn’t look him in the eye, busying herself with the first aid. “I didn’t really have any friends.”

He wants to remember that detail. Jot in down in the back of his mind, and even now, drugged and hardly able to pay attention with all the world shifting and the shadows moving in spaces behind her head, Wilson quietly notes the way she scoots closer opens his mouth without thinking. “And now?.”

One of her fingers is dipped into the pink goo, scooping out a bit when she stops. When they’re eyes meet, she finds him lacking his usual demeanor. This was probably the most vulnerable she’s ever seen him, and she doesn’t even think he realizes it. He’s slowing.

“I have you now.” Willow leans forwards, closer, and runs a thumb over the exposed skin of his eye and tries to to pull back when he hisses at the sting it gives him. “Best friends, right?”

The stinging hasn’t stopped, but Wilson sets his hands in his lap and tries not to fidget. Or think about her hand on his face. Or the weight of her on his mattress. Or the image of her in a pretty black dress, standing on the balcony surrounded by fireworks.

His attempts do not work, and he keeps his distance as best he can as she wraps the bandage over his eye. “Of course.”

His fingers are twitching. He can’t feel the pain in his chest, even the ache in his head has numbed to the point of exhaustion but he’s fumbling quite nervously with the wrappings around his hand. It’s just the one hand still, now that the skin of his knuckles have healed and look fine enough to do some precision work. A mundane distraction, but one none the less.

Why was this difficult? Why does he feel so nauseous? A side effect of the mandrake, must be. He’s a good of a liar to himself as he is to others.

The knot is tied, Willow pulls away from his head and he thinks she’s going to leave when he spies her gaze trailing after his own, to his palm. Another hand joins his, hovering over his skin, and Wilson’s throat goes dry and body freezes as Willow pokes the exposed skin there with the tip of her fingernail.

“Can I see?” She’s asking very, very gently.

Wilson doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t really feel like it. Not awake enough to. So he just lifts his hand in her direction, palm open and out for invitation for her to take.

She holds it like she does her lighter, with a carefulness that he studies with half-lidded eyes and watches as she pulls away some of the bandage to peek at the scar underneath, curiosity etched in her features.

It comes undone, and her face falls. Willow looks utterly disappointed. “Oh.”

Scientist wavers in the silence. She’s staring at the skin far longer than just a peek. “What is it?”

“Nothing, just-” She cuts herself off, settling his hand away from her face and turns to give him the widest, brightest, falsest smile he’s seen in the week. “I was just kinda hoping the all the healing experiments you’ve been doing would have, I don’t know, made the scar go away or something. It’s stupid, I know.”

Why does it matter to her? It’s just skin. It’s not the first scar he’s gotten from science, and it won’t be the last. “It doesn’t hurt me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No. It’s just, um.” She hesitates. A moment of silence passes, and Wilson is suddenly yanked from dozing off seconds prior when he feels his hand unceremoniously tugged back towards her again.

The fallen look on her face is gone, replaced by bewilderment. “Why is it _black_?”

The scientist, half-asleep still, says nothing, only squinting in the darkness to find that the color of the scar did indeed match the color of the shadows the both of them casted on his wall.

But that is….a problem for a Wilson is much more awake, with a mind less foggy and ash clouded as his was at the moment. So the answer he gives her, (a mummer, one she’s not sure she even understood) is an expertly conducted flirt in order to divert her attention.

“We’re uh….We’re holding hands.” Smooth, Higgsbury.

Willow looks up wide-eyed, and he feels like he could die from the embarrassment, like a teenager all over again. But then she laughs, soft-pitched and coated with sleepiness herself that the tension in his shoulders slink away, though the warm feeling in his face stays and he’s silently thankful for the low lighting and the wrapping covering what he’s hoping is most of his blush.

Her thumbs stay pressed to his palm as she laughs, and it doesn’t even hurt. “You’re a massive dork. And you said I was the one being inappropriate.” She quietens down, maybe afraid of waking the upstairs robot, though Wilson is certain that they’re programmed to be a shutdown sleeper.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve never seen a healed burn before, especially from what that bad. How was I supposed to know what it’s supposed to look like?” She teases. Look at her like what?

The numbness lessens just enough for him to feel his mouth stretched upwards into what can only be described as aloof and off. Oh, so he’s smiling. When did that happen? How long has that been there? (Don’t look at him for too long please. He’s red enough as it is. Stare any longer and Wilson is going to dive into a pillow and fake a heart attack.)

As if answering his silent wishes, she pulls away, seemly satisfied with her work and feeling slightly less guilty, moving to get off the bed. It’s only when her bare feet hit the floor and she’s collecting the first aid supplies off of his comforter does Wilson blink out of his haze and squints very, very hard at the familiar pattern of clothing she’s wearing.

“Are those…mine?”

An old set of pajamas he never really wore, white and grey and simple long pants and long sleeves. They looked soft, maybe made of silk or something just as nice. Much more pronounced in sleepwear than the simple T-shirt he wore to bed now, probably something he had stashed away, long forgotten from a life lived where appearance meant everything, even fast asleep in your bed at night.

Willow looks like a wide-eyed rabbit. “You weren’t using them! They were just sitting in storage, and I don’t have any nice pajamas anyways!”

Her face is flushed, and she’s sputtering for an excuse while he’s taking in even more of her appearance that he hadn’t noticed before. (She’s wearing her hair down again. It looks nice like that, flipped at the ends. He wonders if she styles it like that or does it occur naturally.)

Eventually, Wilson just waves her off, there’s a tug at the corner of his mouth. The grin he gives her is goofy and half-asleep and just amused. (And it’s not appropriate at all, and it’s such a silly “Don’t burn those this time.”

Her fluttering stops, cheeks puffed out and he carefully counts the stray strands of hair that has fallen in front of her eyes. Willow gathers the rest of the supplies in her arms and sticks her tongue out. “No promises.”

She shuts the door behind her. His room feels a lot colder for some reason.

* * *

An hour later, she’s knocking again.

How could she have been so stupid? She shouldn’t have been so careless, so distracted by the sight of his scar, the funny look on his face that she forgot the most important thing in the situation: Bernie. Probably still snuggled up against one of his pillows, just where she left him, unnoticed by the scientist himself.

He was a gentleman, and he’s handed her lighter and bear and other little things she’s forgotten around the house before. If he had noticed her teddy was still there, he would have brought it to her by now.

But he hasn’t. In fact, he’s probably fast asleep already. He was already on the edge of it when she was changing his bandage, words slurred and probably less coherent than he thought he was, (not that she minded. He made some weird, funny faces under the healing effects of the mandrake experiment) and if she was unlucky enough, he has locked his door already.

Willow would be without her Bear for the night and sometimes fire alone just didn’t cut it.

….would he be mad if she walked in and grabbed him really quick? Just a few seconds, in and out again. She’ll be super quiet, super fast, and that’s totally not a weird thing to do, right? He would be understanding, right? (Yeah, because breaking into your boss’s bedroom at two in the morning for the sake of a teddy bear seemed like a reasonable thing to do.)

It’s cold here at night. She could sit in the fireplace, but it’s only as comfortable as the brick around it was, and the lighter she has can only do so much. Enough for a quick fix, when she wants to let it run over her hands and burn away her anxieties.  She has it in her hands now, running her thumb over the switch in swift, nervous motions.

But fire can’t sleep in a bed with her, unless she plans on burning the house down. No, she needed her teddy for that. (And no, she will not apologize for being a grown woman with such a need. Damn those who gave her odd looks about it.)

Her hand hovers over the doorknob, hesitation. What if he’s awake? Would it even hurt to check? He really wouldn’t mind, right? Right?

The jitter in her fingers don’t stop even when she hears the click of the door coming open. So it wasn’t locked. Odd, but good for her. A slow opening, cracking open the door just enough for her to peek one eye through and scan the room.

It’s dark as hell, and she can’t really make out any shapes and figures to the exact. Though, she can see the bed, the lump under the covers where Wilson is sleeping (don’t stare at him! don’t be weird! don’t be creepy!) and Willow quickly scans the comforters, looking for a familiar shape of two arms, two legs, and one button eye.

The light in the room is not doing her any favors, so Willow lifts up her lighter and flicks it to life. She finds what she’s looking for.

Bernie is….standing.

Her teddy bear is standing. On the bed. On his own. His head lopped to the side and one paw resting on Wilson’s head, the scientist’s face scrunched up in an expression of pain. Or fear. Or both.

Black button eyes turn to meet her lighter’s light and Willow blinks to find that the teddy has dropped.

A step towards the bed, two steps. The teddy bear doesn’t move again, even as Wilson’s head sinks lower as he curls into himself further.

Well.

Maybe she was more tired than she thought.

Assistant takes soft, quick steps towards them, lighter up and illuminating what she could not see before. Her free hand comes out to get Bernie, and she has to reach across the bed a good length to get to him without stretching over Wilson, who to add, did not look like he was doing well.

Against her better judgement, and no matter how creepy this may have looked, Willow lowers her lighter just a little further, and speaks as softly as she can manage. “Wilson?”

The man’s face is twisted, tension all in his body and fingers clutched so tightly at the pillow his knuckles have gone white. There’s red bleeding through the newly changed bandage on his head, and something darker bleeding through the one on his hand. Words jumbled up together in sentences that don’t make any sense spew out of his mouth like running water. He’s out of breath, sweating as he dreams.

He looks exactly like how he did the day she found him passed out on the couch, expect this time, he looks worse. (He told her he didn’t sleep much. So this is what he mean’t.)

There’s a touch of panic in her, but to be honest, she’d feel horrible if she left him in nightmares like this.

Willow climbs up on the bed, a safe distance away before clicking off her lighter and reaching out a hand to shake his shoulder. “Hey, hey it’s me-”

Her back hits the mattress faster than she can even blink, one arm secured with Bernie, the other’s wrist pinned to her side and Willow is staring up wide eyed at a scientist who was defiantly _not okay_ with being startled awake. “It’s me! It’s me! Wilson, snap _out_ of it!”

Her voice cracks, she tugs at her wrist, and it takes a full ten seconds of her staring up into a wide, bright blue eye does Willow feel the grip on her wrist let go and Wilson shuffles backwards on the bed, away from her until his back hits bedhead and he’s cradling his face in his hands.

“Fuck! Bloody fuck!” Curses he doesn’t say often. Broken and panicked as he comes down from the adrenaline. Wilson is gritting his teeth and hissing through the hallucinations. “Of all hell...”

She should have learned from the first time. But Willow doesn’t think about that now, instead she sits up straight with lightening speed, spinning her body around until she’s facing him fully. Bernie is placed in front of her, not really for her own protection, (despite the signs) but concern fills her. The man in front of her is obviously not okay, and not handling his sudden awakening well. (now she feels even worse) and briefly, just for moment, there’s the sudden fear she feels that Wilson is going to _yell_ at her.

But only silences passes for a few seconds. Wilson all but pants until he’s gathered his breath again, hand clutched over his chest to the pain that’s returned, one itching up to thumb at the bandage of his eye. It takes two minutes, Willow counts exactly, for them to both be sitting there without a word before Wilson is collected enough to find her in the darkness of the room and see the worry-soaked expression she has embedded in her face.

Shoulders tense, clutching her teddy. She doesn’t look any less startled than he did. But Willow is the first to speak. “Are you-?”

“I’m fine.” Wilson’s answer comes out harsher than he intended, but he’s too far gone to think about it at the moment. Too afraid, too lost in the mind fog. The medicine has worn off and the pain was back again, so not only was his sleep interrupted, but he doubt's he’ll be getting back to it anytime soon. The very realization of the fact causes him to heave a deep sigh, shoulders slumped and head hung low. “I’m fine. I’m fine, I am.”

Willow opens her mouth to speak, but Wilson cuts her off, avoiding eye contact. “What are you doing in here?”

The excuse she had prepared has escaped her mind whole heartily. “I heard something.”

He doesn’t believe a word of that. His gaze scans her over, the best he could with a pounding head and almost pitch black darkness, and finds the teddy bear clutched to her chest a little tighter than usual. “Okay.” He doesn’t comment on her obvious fib. It doesn’t matter. “Everything’s fine. You should probably go back to bed now.”

He’s not surprised she’s filled with worry after witnessing him act like that, (human beings were empathetic, who wouldn't?) but he is surprised, however, when he sees her brows and mouth turn downwards and she leans forwards in a sudden motion. “What? No explanation? Nothing?”

Wilson is too tired for this. “What is there to explain?”

“You’re seriously going to leave me in the dark over this?” No pun intended. Willow is agitated, both over loss of sleep and frustration. “What was that all about-?”

“I don’t get sleep often.” He makes the statement as crystal clear as he can manage. “That’s it.”

Willow opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again before shutting it tight and getting the message that yeah, he really didn’t want to talk about it. The scientist seems grateful that she’s taken the hint, though he’s not looking at her directly, eventually he has too, because it’s been much too long of a pause to be comfortable and she’s still sitting there. “What is it?”

“Are you going to try and go back to sleep at all?” She asks.

“No.” It’s not even worth trying. He has a better shot forgetting what horrors he saw by locking himself up in his lab.

Willow looks displeased, though its a softer look than the frustration she had on seconds prior. Her fingers pluck the ends of Bernie’s ear, pulling out little tuffs of stuffing and flicking them away. Wilson says nothing about the white fluff landing on his sheets. A beat passes, two of them, and he’s stuck listening to the sound of his (still racing) heartbeat until she decides it’s awkward enough for her to leave because he doesn’t have the courage to bury himself underneath the covers.

A rustling sound, and something soft is being pushed into his lap. Wilson blinks the blur from his eyesight and squints down at the offering. Bernie, held by two jittery hands. He follows the owner’s arms to meet her face, staring at him with an nervous look about her. “He helps me when I can’t sleep.”

Oh, how sweet. “I don’t think he’s going to be of any use to me, you’re probably better off just keeping him for yourself.” He waves the bear away, but his voice drops lower, face going softer. “But thank you for trying.”

She hesitates, then pulls the rejected bear back to her chest and plays with the spare threading.“So you’re just going to stay up all night tonight?”

He sighs. “That’s the plan.”

“Would you like company?”

If the nightmare didn’t jump start his heart, that comment would. Wilson eyebrows shoot to the ceiling and Willow pauses for a moment in realization before wrinkling her nose and shaking her head at him. “Not like that, dork. I mean’t if you wanted a friend. Like a sleepover.”

Scientist fiddles with his thumbs. “Oh.” He clears his throat. The last of the images are beginning to fade. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

Willow deadpans. “Who cares?”

The scientist swallows whatever else he was going to say and leans back, letting the hushed pause take the room and as the heartbeat attempts to still. It protests, but there’s no danger here, not in the room, not in his mind, but one’s sitting in front of him that’s just as much of a threat to his heart as any hard scare would be. “You’d lose sleep.”

“That’s okay. We can talk about stupid stuff. Like science. Or fire.” She’s making herself quite at home, and as embarrassing as it is, he admires her casualness. (Though, Willow is nervous and shaking and the movements are only concealed by dim lights and the confidence she’s forcing into her voice.) “Maybe the kind of science that makes fire.”

Wilson shuffles a little bit to the side. He can’t see her very clearly, but he knows she’s made herself a spot on the opposite side of the bed. Not touching him, not near him, but too close. She’s not even underneath the covers, sitting atop of them just as she did before. “Pyrotechnics.” He says. “You’d be interested in that field. It’s how fireworks were created.”

“Oh, neat. Have you ever considered making some fireworks in the lab?”

“I don’t know if this is your attempt at distracting me, or tricking me into somehow creating a bomb.”

The darkness lifts just enough for him to see a flash of a grin. “The first one. Or both. As long as it works. I wouldn’t mind seeing some explosions.”

“Stay in the lab long enough, you might get to see one up close.” He sighs, running a hand down his face and scratching at the scruff that was beginning to grow again. (She’s been here for a long time now. How long has she been his assistant? Long enough to feel comfortable in this space, and too long now that he’s gotten this comfortable with it too. He was not expecting this domesticity to come out of a simple newspaper ad.)

Which reminds him; a little detail from his brain’s inner notes stick out, and Wilson’s motions stop to peer one eye in her direction. She’s shuffling somewhere over there, lying down to feel more comfortable. Bernie squished underneath her, her elbow propping up her face to look at him.

He wants to mimic that action, but he won’t. “Didn’t you say you slept in a ‘room with a bunch of brats’ when you were younger?” He makes sure to use her exact wording, just in case.

Willow stops messing with the stray threads coming from Bernie’s torso and thinks for a moment. “Yeah?”

“So I take it you had plenty of siblings?”

Oh, he’s trying to break into her past again. “Nice try, but no. You’ll have to be a better detective than that.”

The jest does not go unnoticed by him, and from what the tension in the room was earlier, the lightheartedness is not unwelcome. Wilson finds it contagious enough to lean back even further, relaxing to the best of his ability (hard to do, since she’s _right there_ ) and even going as far to sink a little bit lower so his head can rest on the pillow as they talk. “I’m a scientist. I’m sure I’ll figure it out, eventually.”

He hears her blow a huff of air out of her nose. “And your progress so far?”

Wilson holds up three fingers in the air, each one going down with every point he makes thus far. “You’re immune to fire. You have no last name.” You’re either foolish or desperate enough to stay working under me. But he doesn’t say that one out loud, only puts down the finger for it. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re an enigma.”

She snorts. “You’re not so obvious yourself, Mr. I-Live-In-A-Shady-Cabin-In-The-Woods.” Willow reaches over to poke at the man, finding his shoulder and giving it a light jab. “No wonder your reputation is in shambles.”

The taste in his mouth goes sour. Wilson is suddenly reminded of his injuries, and his reasons, and other things he doesn’t care to think about at night. (In the dark, he can see her barely, and she’s shivering. He’s not sure whether from her own nerves or the cold.)

So he takes a pillow, one of the many he has up there, (mostly for decoration, really) and cuts Willow’s reach short, stuffing it in the space between them and stacking another on top until there is nothing short of a pillow fort wall separating them both.

A rustle, and the top of Willow’s head pops over the ‘wall’ to peer down at him. “Uh.”

“You can get under the covers if you’re cold.” He tells her.

A pause, and he feels the weight of the bed shifting and she’s scooting herself underneath, dropping out of sight. Wilson makes special effort to keep his legs away from her side of the bed (hers? This was his. Why was she even here in the first place?) so she has more than enough room to move around without them touching.

Willow speaks again once she’s comfortable. (and the blanket is a reminder of a memory where things were soft and warm, but she’s not wearing a dress this time.)“So what happened to being ‘inappropriate?”

Yes, Wilson, why were you enabling this? “You’re stubborn.” It’s the only thing he can offer her. She sticks her tongue out him, though he cannot see it. “Neither of us are sleeping, anyways.”

“Would you try, if you got tired enough?” She’s asking for him, but for herself as well. Just because this man could go days without some shut-eye did not mean it was the same endurance for his assistant.

Hesitation, then his answer comes out a little strained. “If I got tired enough. But that won’t happen if you’re here.”

She scoffs again. “Are you trying to tell me I talk too much?”

“I’m asking you to be more considerate.” His words are serious but his tone his much lighter. “This is still my room, you know.”

“Okay?” Willow pops her head into view again. Her hair falls forward and almost brushes against the tip of his nose. “So?”

“So.” Wilson turns over on his side, facing the opposite direction away from view. “My reputation is bad enough as it is. The last thing I need is for people to think that I’m sleeping with my assistant.”

A pause. Then laughter. The hiccupy kind, the kind he notices she only makes when she’s flustered (and he scolds himself for making that little detail something permanently attached to his mind) Regardless, the heat in his face is hidden, but he wonders if he were to turn and scan the dark, would he find her blushed skin in it.

…This was getting bad.

“You make it sound as if we’re doing something!” She’s shout whispering, and he mumbles something under his breath, reaching an arm back to push her back into her designated safe spot (he misses, ends up smacking one of the pillows away and she teases him for that too) and tells her to hush. “Don’t make fun of me. I’m running on fumes at the moment.”

Willow plops back against her spot, eye closed and mouth tugged into a sleepy, goofy grin. “Are you awake enough to hatch a revenge plan with me?”

“Only if it doesn’t involve setting me or anyone else aside from yourself on fire.”

“It’s on Wx, and I’m the only one on fire.” As if to demonstrate, her hands search through the covers, searching for something. She finds it, the lighter thrown about in the panic, newly forgotten and now found, and flicks it to life. The flame touches her fingertips and she cuts the lighter off again, raising the hand far from where she’s laying. It kills the anxiety.

Sheets moving, Wilson’s voice echoes out into the room. “Don’t set my bed on fire.”

She flicks the flame upwards and down again just for show. “I would never.”

Like a candle wick, the flame dances on her fingertip, like Willow herself was her lighter. It casts a warm, cozy light onto the two of them. Not very strong, but bright enough for her to see his hand reach up and hover outside of the range of hers.

There’s something holding him back, but he’s very polite when he finally asks. “May I?”

She fiddles with the flame, switching it from finger to finger before letting it rest on her index and holding her hand out to him. “Sure.”

Curiosity sets in her as she watches him pause, then pinch his fingers on her own, snuffing it out.

Wilson retracts his fingers quickly and shakes them a little, and she can hear him blowing on the skin, maybe only slightly burned. “An enigma.” He whispers. He sounds tired, still. “Huh.”

When he looks up, he finds Bernie’s head sticking over the pillow wall, with one of Willow’s hands moving his arm to make him wave.

* * *

Sunlight floods through over the blankets, into Willow’s eyes and causing a bright, bright red to flash at her from underneath her eyelids. So she awakens, very slowly, dozy, and lets the memories of the hours prior flood back to mind.

They talk about minor things. Silly things. She originally hatched a revenge plan to trick Wx by placing bits and wires all over the lab and telling them that it was their fallen robot guts, but Wilson was quick to tell her that the robot was too smart for that (he should know, he programmed them himself) but he listens to her anyways, even chuckling at the concept she brings up of making them eat ice.

There was something else after that, and the topic after that, but eventually all the memories fade into a blur. Willow yawns, stretching her arms outwards and-

Oh.

That’s an arm. And another arm, underneath her.

All movements cease. Eyes wide open now, but there’s nothing but covers in front of her. She spies a hand, wrapped in white to the side of her head, follows the arm (oh god.) upwards and finds where it leads back to. (oh god oh fuck.) The owner is sound asleep. At least, that’s what she hopes him to be. Wherever the pillow wall used to be is gone now, scattered somewhere else on the bed or even pushed to the floor. There is no barrier now.

Willow hears the slightest snore and nearly jolts.

It’s fine! It’s fine! Everything is fine! Don’t panic. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the nervousness, or the smell of him, or the butterflies fluttering. Find an escape route, focus on it, make it. Move softly and quietly and oh fuck Willow thinks she just woke him up.

Fire-starter goes still in place, halfway out of Wilson’s hold but silent, eyes wide and staring at him (she must look hilarious, her hair is poking out in all different sorts of wild places.) She waits a moment, realizes he’s still asleep and take a deep breath, inching a little bit outwards out of reach and trying to to shift the bed carefully so as to not make the slightest movement-

Knocking coming from somewhere else in the house and Willow jumps, falling backwards with her back landing on the hardwood floor.

She’d curse out loud if it wasn’t for the smart decision to bite her tongue (hard enough) to make her quiet. Scrambling to her feet, she looks to Wilson. He hasn’t stirred. In fact, he looks so sound asleep, so deeply that all that panic may have been for absolutely nothing.

Willow takes a deep breath (trust me, a deep one, enough to make her lungs exhausted) and lets it out slowly, willing the panic (and the butterflies) to cease. She’d pull out her lighter if she could, but that along with Bernie was lost somewhere in the room, and she’s not awake enough, or brave enough to start looking.

Should she wake him? That wouldn’t be right. He never got to sleep, and Willow felt so bad, so awkward anyways. This isn’t the first time she’s been in his bed (and that’s such a weird thing to think outloud) but it’s the first she’s seen him truly relaxed. Maybe if they’re lucky, it’ll last.

Wilson looks peaceful. Like he’s actually getting some decent rest for once. He still has the dark bags underneath his eyes, sure, but the lines in his face has lessen. The skin going underneath the eye bandage looks healthier, whether or not that the sleep or the trick of the sunlight she’s not sure.

It’s a relief to finally see some progress. She was starting to come with one-eyed nicknames for him in the meantime.

He has a knack for getting hit in the face, she notes. (One of which, was her fault, now she remembers that little bandage he dawned on his forehead not too long ago. And no! She was not tipsy!)

But his damage seems to be healing, finally. At least from what she can see, and not what Wx just tells her to believe. It brings a relieved smile to her face so Willow leans forward, and just like all boo-boos should (and no one ever done it for her) kisses the white of his bandage.

Knocking from the front door rings out as she pulls back and finds blue staring right back at her. So Willow does for the second time that morning, jump back and land on her rump on the floor. “ _Shit_!”

Assistant fumbles to her feet, heart racing and body ridged. But there’s no speaking, no movement from the bed, and Wilson is just as fast asleep as he was seconds prior. Crisis Averted. Now get the fuck out of dodge.

The knocking comes for a third time, each time getting softer, less motivated, and Willow has decided to no longer care about her appearance opening the door more over as she rushes out of Wilson’s room, shutting the door behind her and making way to the entrance.

(And as soon as the door clicks, he stops pretending. Wilson opens his eyes, sits up, and touches burnt fingertips to the surface of the bandage.)

Willow swings open the door with the speed of someone who’s too rushed and too hurried to look like they were doing something important, she completely out of breath to even speak properly to the guest out on their porch. She takes a breather and clears her throat.“Higgsbury….Residence?”

A girl, maybe no older than ten or eleven, with her tiny fist still raised in a knocking motion stands before her. Dead eyes roam over Willow, taking in her apparent, noting the pajamas that seem oddly out of place on the woman before meeting the assistant’s gaze. Recognition builds in her.

The only different is, her blonde hair isn’t in ringlets now. “I heard Mr. Higgsbury had died. I came to see.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we started with an open door, we're ending with an open door
> 
> surprise surprise relationship development time


End file.
